


fluttering banners of gathering night

by captainkilly



Category: Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, Igh, Non-Graphic Smut, Past Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Psychic Abilities, The Hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-01-21 13:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 99,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12458316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Trish Walker and Ward Meachum meet in a bar. There is friendship, there is love.. and then there is danger.(Or: the birth of Hellcat, a particular brand of reluctant heroism, three common enemies, and darkness itself descending upon New York City.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite firmly a Defenders-AU of sorts, as I began writing this back in May, though it works off the assumption that all four Defenders teamed up once before this fic begins. It began as another one-shot, but quickly evolved into so much more. All sixteen chapters are completed at this time and I will be updating about twice a week with a new one. It is my hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

"Which one's yours?"

 

The man's wry voice sounds strangely hesitant to Trish's ears, even though the question itself seems innocent enough. She's dimly aware of him seating himself on the barstool next to her. Sneaks a glance sideways. Sharp suit, clean cut, nice shoes, _great_ cologne. Huh. Could be worse. She turns her attention back to the TV that hangs near the far end of the bar. She must have seen this footage a million times over by now. The Defenders saving New York. That's what they're calling them. That's what they're calling what they did. Never mind that Jess had almost died, that Luke had collapsed under the weight of the goings-on, that they had all come close to losing so much. She shakes her head slowly. Blinks and chugs back the last of her drink.

 

She knows she shouldn't be drinking, but sobriety left the building one near-death experience and an almost-apocalypse ago. She sits in establishments like this one and wonders when exactly the world got complicated again. Trish lets out a tired sigh when she sets the empty glass down. Lazily signals the bartender for another, then raises another finger to make it two.

 

"Jones," she lazily supplies then, now that she's decided to buy the man a drink. "Who's yours?"

 

"Rand," he clips out matter-of-factly. She can practically hear him roll his eyes as he says the name. He pauses as the bartender sets the drinks in front of her. She extends one of the glasses to her new companion. Smiles at his next words. "Thank you."

 

"Money's got to flow," she shrugs, "though you'd certainly know that too." She's snuck another glance at him in passing him the drink. Recognised his face instantly. "Didn't expect to catch you drinking in this fine establishment, Mr Meachum."

 

Ward Meachum scoffs at her words before he looks around the bar. She knows he can't very well argue with her observation, given the grime and dirt that cakes the windows and floor. It's the last place anyone would expect to find the two of them, of that she's sure, and quite frankly it's also the _last_ place she'd ever want to set foot in again. Still, it's the only place in New York that doesn't seem to associate her with Jessica. (Or with Karen Page, for that matter, though most people are currently so hung up on what they call Karen's "Frank Castle connection" that this seems a little more unlikely. That's apparently the result of a wanted murderer coming back from the dead and shielding the reporter from an absolute hail of bullets. She had a good laugh at Karen's expense over that attention-seeking headline. Quietly thanked Mr Castle afterwards for protecting her, too, even when the man had acted as if he didn't know what Trish was talking about.)

 

She shakes herself briefly and turns sideways on her barstool. Takes a good, long look at her new drinking buddy.

 

"You're sick of it too, huh?" she asks him. She's certainly seen the man look better, though they have never officially met. "Do you get stopped on the street more often too? Got complete strangers telling you their life stories?"

 

"Tragically so," he comments with a nod of his head. His long fingers play with the top of his glass as he turns slightly to look at her. "I thought they were coming up to me to talk about some of Rand Enterprises's latest renewals. We've pushed through so many that it's all I had the space to think about." She hums appreciatively at that. Makes a mental note to ask him about that later. "Instead, all they want to talk about is Danny. _'Does his fist really glow? Does it glow in the dark? Does he have healing powers? Are you using his energy in medicine?'_ It's the day of a thousand questions every time I step out of the house." Ward's voice turns more and more asinine the longer he speaks. "I could sell those people _anything_ and they'd believe it. Someone should do an experiment with Danny as the mass healing placebo or something."

 

"That might work." She smiles as he bites back a snort of his own laughter. "All they want to talk about with me is Jessica, though that often also involves talking about me on some level. We grew up together, so I get all of these lovely questions ranging from what her favourite colour is to the best way you can tell if she's drunk off her face." She pauses. Then adds: "I punched the guy who asked me that. He was so overjoyed that he actually asked me to do it again, so he could put the video of it on Youtube."

 

"People are stupid."

 

"I'll drink to that."

 

They clink their glasses together before downing the liquor in one fell swoop. She grimaces slightly as she sets her glass back down. Ward, for that matter, is already signalling the bartender in a way that decisively means 'keep them coming'. She guesses she's not buying her own drinks anymore now. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

 

*****

 

A glass and two shots later, she's decidedly swaying back and forth on her barstool just a little bit. Ward still looks more balanced than she feels, but he's knocked back another shot before she's got time to blink. She paces him with a hand on his arm and the insistent order of "water, _now_ " that she snaps at the bartender. The man keeps sizing them up and down now that they've moved on to doing shots together. Trish isn't sure she likes the look in his eyes. So she snaps out carefully cultured words, taps her fingers impatiently, keeps her hand on Ward's arm a little more insistently in a bid to get the bartender to back the fuck down and pour her water. It seems to be working.

 

"You're smarter than me," comments Ward now that the bartender's finally given up and put an entire can of water in front of her. "I don't tend to pace my drinks."

 

"You really should. Savour the experience, don't chase it down crudely, you know?" She smirks at him as she pours herself a glass of water. "Be a gentleman about it."

 

His answering scoff amuses her. "I know how to drink."

 

"Nope." She pops the sound of the 'p' loudly. Shakes her head when he raises his eyebrow at her in challenge. Decides to expand on her reasoning. "You know how to loner drink. That's different from this."

 

"Loner drinks are done from the bottle."

 

"You're not a bottle-guy." She clutches at his arm in slight alarm when he almost raises his hand to signal the bartender for what she can only assume is going to be a bottle. Lets out a hoarse laugh at his annoyed look. Tilts her head slightly to indicate said bartender. "That guy's been eyeballing us a little too weirdly. If we start bottle-drinking like a bunch of idiots, we're going to wake up with more than just our dignity missing."

 

"I have no dignity," he informs her calmly, "but I'll pace it out for the sake of yours." He pours some water into his own shot glass. "How's that?"

 

"Absolutely _stellar_."

 

"Had I known you'd be this sarcastic, I would've actually talked to you at the last fundraiser," he remarks dryly.

 

"Oh god, I _hated_ that one.” Trish is aware that her voice has edged firmly into whining territory, which is usually a sign she's hit her alcohol limit, but he doesn't seem to mind. She thinks she spies half a smirk on his face before he tips his water back into his throat. It gives her enough courage to continue talking. “Actually, I hate all fundraisers. They're just done to make the rich feel good about themselves. But that one was _bad_. Bad date, bad night, bad dress." She shudders at the memory. Frowns as she tries to recall Ward's presence at the damn thing. "You didn't look that comfortable either, if memory serves me correctly?"

 

"It was a freakshow of people interested in the Defenders. That, and I had a bad date too."

 

"You can talk to me next time. I won't freeze you out." She's almost surprised to find she means it. Talking to Ward Meachum has shifted from obligation to interest in the span of a single evening. She's not sure about how to take that. He's corporate in a way that makes her hair stand on end, with barely any wrinkles in his suit and a way of talking that shifts to all-business more often than not. Still, there's something in his continued tolerance of her that's decidedly _not_ corporate at all. She shakes her head. Tucks her hair behind her ear. Takes swigs from her glass of water until it's empty. Then, decides to challenge. "Unless you're terrified of me, in which case.."

 

He snorts out an “as if” that's halfway between derision and amusement. Turns toward her slightly and smirks back at her. "You do know how to charm people, don't you?"

 

"From the sound of things, so do you. I still want to know more about the counterdrug you're promoting with Rand Enterprises. It seems a lot like a miracle cure." She laughs softly at his annoyed face. "I know, bad choice of words given our present circumstances as the friends of New York's latest batch of superheroes. But it's just.." She pauses, then. Weighs her options. Maybe it's the liquor sloshing around in her brain pushing her to make a life decision that could be good or could be very bad. Maybe it's the survival part of her brain telling her that Ward Meachum is trustworthy. Whatever it is that's telling her to keep talking, she takes a deep breath and ploughs ahead. "I wish I'd had something like that back when I was in a bad way. It's going to help a lot of young people." Another pause. "Then again, it was fun to annoy the shit out of my mother. She _hated_ how I was when I was on drugs. She couldn't control what I did then."

 

"Bad parent?"

 

"You have no idea."

 

"I have some." At her inquisitive look, he sighs and pours her another glass of water. He keeps his eyes firmly on the can as he speaks. "My dad was.. intense. Volatile." He shakes his head. His voice cracks slightly under the strain of memories she can't reach. He recalibrates his reply because of it. She knows the liquor's making him more honest than he normally would've been. She doesn't go around telling her own sob stories to strangers, either. Yet, here they sit. Talking as though they didn't just meet a few drinks and at least three discussions about the state of the world ago. "Took me years to see it for what it was. Years to get clear of him. I only just now feel like I'm done walking in the shoes of his legacy." Her hand tightens reflexively, supportively, around his arm. "I'm sure you know how that might feel."

 

She nods at that. "My mother's an opportunistic control freak. She'd do almost anything for money. Including selling her own kid to the media's highest bidder." She snorts in a most undignified manner. "Highest-paid child star, that's me. Toys with my face on it fetch big bucks on eBay these days. And then there's the pressure, you know? You have to perform, you have to do this and that and such to even be loved, _you have to smiiiile like you mean it kid!_ "

 

"My dad never told me to smile," he says with a shake of his head, "but god, yes.. the pressure." For a moment, his eyes seem almost haunted. "It's _never_ good enough."

 

"The best day of my life was when I broke off contact with my mother."

 

"The best day of my life was when my father died."

 

They say it almost simultaneously. Laugh sheepishly at the shared sentiment. Trish isn't sure how they wound up at such an intimate, private place in conversation that quickly. Maybe it's a sense of kinship that tugs at her to keep talking, keep asking questions, keep making light of the situation. Maybe it's that his eyes remind her of the way her own used to look after another round of Dorothy Walker's manipulations. Maybe it's just the fact that he keeps eyeing his drinks as though they are going to eat him alive.

 

Maybe it's the fact that they're both drowning out the rest of the world in a bar while it's still light out, maybe it's that they're both sort-of siblings to New York's latest superheroes, maybe it's just that they're both rich and famous and so very tired of the state the world around them seems to be in.

 

Whatever it is, she thinks she wants more of it.

 

She's not had this particular ease of being with a person since Jess. And even Jess doesn't really know that hollowed-out feeling of being made and remade in the image of parental love, doesn't realise that Trish is a walking set of terms and conditions that just keeps adding stipulations, doesn't know what it really takes to spit in the face of that sacred family image and go one's own way.

 

She looks at Ward Meachum and thinks he may know all of it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Trish knows she's got a habit of bombarding people with all kinds of questions. The drive to get an answer to all of them is probably what makes her good at her job, even though her big-mouthed curiosity lands her in some tight spots now and again. Case in point: the rather tight spot she's in right now, courtesy of a certain Rand Enterprises CEO she's secretly decided is the best person to stumble out of a rather dingy bar with.

 

To say that she had been surprised when Ward Meachum acquiesced to her battering ram of questions with an offer of his own would be an understatement. She had blinked owlishly at him under the dim light of the street lanterns. Remembers that she had shaken her head at him half a dozen times, as though that would magically clear away the haze alcohol had shrouded her in. He'd mistaken the vigorous head-shaking for a “no”. Had come very close to retracting the offer.

 

She hadn't given him a chance to.

 

So, here she is, about to do a radio interview with the man. She'd agreed to the offer rather nervously, unsure of how to transition from drinking buddies to professionals in the space of a single week. (She's still not sure of that _now_ , but she'll be damned if she's going to let her listeners catch onto her nerves.)

 

It's not as if his offer had come entirely out of nowhere. She'd been poking interest at him half the evening, encouraged by his few mentions of his work, and he had wound up shooting her idea for an interview down just as hard throughout. She's not sure what changed his opinion in that one evening. Was half-convinced he'd cancel on her once he came to his senses.

 

He _probably_ did come to his senses, but the interview appointment remains.

 

The research she's done in the past five days doesn't do a thing to calm her nerves. She has read far more than she normally does for an interview like this. Has researched the life and times of the Meachum family so much that she can probably recite Ward's family tree backwards on a dare. Jess had sounded bemused when asked for more information over the phone, but Trish's memory is not to be underestimated and she _knows_ her sister met Ward's sister twice. (She thinks that counts for something, even though Jess had abhorred every fibre of Joy Meachum's being for reasons left unsaid.)

 

To be fair, she had finally given up and called his office to ask about off-limit subjects for the interview. The rumour mill about the Meachums churns out anything from 'family patriarch back from the dead' to 'Rand Enterprises funds Defenders' these days, and Trish is pretty sure she's going to lose her tentative _something_ with Ward if she pushes too hard too soon. (She refuses to categorise it further than that, because the man's still standoffish enough to not warrant the term 'friendship' quite yet.)

 

Secretly, she wonders if everyone who picks up the phone at Rand has been instructed to be as unhelpful and dense as humanly possible. The girl she had talked to had babbled away. Called her Patsy half a dozen times before Trish froze her out in earnest. She'd had a headache for hours following that call, especially upon learning that the girl was pretty clueless about her boss's dealings and that Ward himself wouldn't get out of his afternoon back-to-back meetings until later that night. Somewhere in the middle of that call, she had felt stuck on " _it's Patsy!_ " as a running cosmic joke of a theme song for Trish Walker. _Hope this day will never end.. It's Patsy!!_

 

Caller ID had let her know around midnight that same day that there was another call from Rand Enterprises awaiting her. She'd almost taken the caller's head off with a clipped "Trish Walker, don't waste my time" before hearing the answering chuckle and a rather defensive "you called me first!" on the other end of the line. Ward had finally expressed the intent of giving her a full carte blanche of 'anything goes' for the interview, after dancing somewhat expertly around any of the rapidfire questions she'd shot at him. Trish thinks she must have sounded pretty stupid, asking him at least five times if he was serious about it. She'd finally grabbed the opportunity with both hands. It's not every day she gets a carte blanche, after all, least of all from business moguls who should know better than let Trish Walker dominate their public appearance.

 

The phone call had somehow spun itself into the early morning hours somehow. She's not sure how that happened. Is not entirely certain how she wound up seated upright in bed babbling into the phone about architecture, but the resulting argument that had finally culminated into a mutual expression of tolerance regarding Scandinavian design had partially convinced her that Ward Meachum is in the wrong line of business. It had also convinced her that the real challenge today is probably going to be pushing all of their exhaustive discussion topics into two hours.

 

She's never been one to back down from a challenge.

 

She walks into her studio to find him already seated, harbouring two cups of coffee like a dragon's hoard, looking for all the world like the perfect CEO. It throws her so utterly that she laughs out a surprised hello before busying herself with the belt on her coat. Rolls back her shoulders the second she's taken the coat off. Takes a deep breath for the small space of a moment when her back's still turned to him. Men like him are _never_ early. They're used to letting people wait on them hand and foot. Men like him don't sit in a radio channel's studio forking out coffee to their interviewer. She reassesses everything she assumed about his role in Rand Enterprises. Reassesses that perhaps there is nothing of his father left in the man whose eyes she now meets as she turns to face him. It's an intriguing prospect.

 

Her research falls away from her the second she takes up her space behind the microphone. She goes through the motions of her preparations before the show without letting him distract her too much, though she can sense his eyes on her in a way that's merely openly curious. He's quiet and watchful. Observant of her work, but not obnoxiously so. Some of her visitors seem to think they need to put on an act. He does not. The only thing he betrays is a slight tremor in his fingers, too small to be picked up on by those less perceptive than her. He's nervous, too, though his eyes are calm and currently locked onto her to the exclusion of everything else. There is no pressure in his gaze. Only curiosity. She smiles an easy smile this time and hopes it will reassure him somewhat. She's been doing this a long time. She knows what she's doing.

 

Never has her job been more apparent to her than today.

 

"Good afternoon, New York City," she begins, after receiving a thumbs-up from her crew, "and welcome to what looks to be a wonderful Friday with Trish Talk! Wherever you're listening from, I hope we find you in good spirits." She pauses, smiles, then adds: "If you're not in good spirits yet, chances are that you will be after this show." She winks at Ward conspiratorially. "Joining me today is someone you will almost definitely know by name. I hope you all know him by face, too, because he's one of the Hot 50 Entrepreneurs for _far_ more reasons than his job alone." She almost laughs out loud at the annoyed look he sends her way at that one. His fingers have stilled their trembling, however, and she can't help but think that's the first mission accomplished. "Welcome, Ward Meachum, CEO of Rand Enterprises. It's good to have you here."

 

"It's good to be here, thank you for the invitation," he replies smoothly.

 

"You've been in the news quite a lot lately," she remarks. Keeps her tone as casual as possible now that she's still on her introduction reel for anyone who's lived under a rock the past few months. "People on the streets are calling Rand's new vision absolutely inspired in the face of a world that's often very unforgiving and cutthroat. Your personal rise to the top of humanitarian multinationals has been called meteoric by people who know much more about the ins and outs of your business than I do." She self-deprecates a little, knowing by now that the man in front of her is prone to doing the same about himself. "And I have to ask, where does this all come from? Your company was making a _ton_ of profit prior to this massive change. I can imagine not everyone within the company is happy about the new direction you're taking them into."

 

"That's certainly true. There have been a lot of internal debates before Rand even went public about the changes we are implementing in our structure. Most of the company has been brought on board with the vision Danny Rand and I have for its future. Making profit used to be one of our prime directives, although the company hid a lot of that profitmaking incentive through ensuring we provided services to the community around us at the same time." He pauses, then chuckles softly before continuing: "I think you could say that I've seen the light. Danny's return certainly set things in motion and shook the company awake from its stupor. I personally felt as though it was time to make that definite transition from profit to fullscale humanitarian in the wake of that return."

 

"You're saying that Rand Enterprises shielded its actual intent from the general public in the past?" She sits up at that, the questions she'd prepared already laying forgotten on the table in front of her. She's developed a good eye for stories over the years. This might just be one of the more interesting to come her way. "How do people know that's no longer the case today?"

 

He nods appreciatively at her reaction, eyes alight with something she cannot put a name to just yet. "Through full transparency of the company, for one," he shares with her. "Previously, only certain documentation about Rand's interests and efforts was released to the general public. I recently signed an order for the company to begin releasing other information about our inner workings. The time of hiding behind a mask is _over_ for Rand. I have personally seen to it that we have cut ties with hundreds of companies that do not share our vision and our interest in making the world a better place. It's something that puts us back on the streets with the people themselves, so we can see what is most needed and react accordingly. We've already begun the implementation of a counterdrug that can help strengthen and accelerate the process for drug users trying to get clean. It's the first of many changes that will hopefully convince people that Rand Enterprises is there for them now more than ever."

 

"I could imagine that the public's trust isn't the only thing that is of concern to Rand going forward. We know that you've been one of the market leaders in many affairs for a long time now, and your recent changes that saw a lot of companies floundering without Rand's support have not gone unnoticed in the business world. I think that many companies are looking anxiously at you to figure out what your next move is going to be.” Trish pauses and shoots him a quick smile. “Aren't you concerned that your competition will discover what you're doing and attempt to emulate it, perhaps even in better ways than Rand is currently achieving, if your transition phase proves to be successful?"

 

"They can certainly try, but Rand's always been successful for a reason and currently has no competition of note in this particular respect anymore. This new direction is more like uncharted waters than anything else. No other multinational's ever transitioned their company into this before. It's groundbreaking in a way."

 

"Doesn't that scare you? It's your reputation on the line. If it goes south, well.. I can imagine you're going to look back on this conversation one day and go 'what the hell was I thinking?', right?"

 

He laughs in reply, then, and the room brightens at the sound. "My reputation as a CEO used to be the same to me as my personal reputation, but that's no longer the case." She raises her eyebrow when she hears a warmth and passion flood into his tone that was not there before. "I have been working in association with Rand Enterprises since I was eighteen. That's a long time of being submerged in its world and learning to navigate the hardships that come with it. It's been this endless line of rolling with the punches and adjusting the company's vision if needed. At times, it felt like I _was_ the company. It's only recently that I've come to realise that there's more to who I am than simply my father's legacy alone." He exhales a breath as he says it and tilts his head back briefly. His eyes carefully avoid hers. "All I feel like doing now is try to be the best person I can be, and let my company reflect the good I try to do. If that latter effort fails, it will not reflect poorly on me as a person." Self-deprecatingly, he adds: "It might reflect a little more poorly on my abilities as CEO than I currently anticipate, though."

 

"It sounds like you had this kind of.. epiphany and became a changed man almost overnight."

 

"Don't make me sound too hipster, I beg of you," he drawls, half-joking, eyes snapping back to meet hers in amusement. "I wasn't in my best state of mind when Danny returned to the company. The pressure at the time was immense and the carefully cultivated family legacy was weighing pretty heavily at that point. I made some really bad decisions for my personal life back then, but also made some really good ones that opened my eyes and turned me onto the path I'm now trying to share with others."

 

"Can you tell me anything about that time? It sounds like it's been very hard on you." He hesitates in reply to her words. It's only a brief moment in the conversation, but she already sees her intern shaking her head at Trish in a panicked sort of ' _oh god no you didn't_ '-way. Trish doesn't mind. She hasn't come this far in life without running a few risks of her own. So, she pushes gently the only way she knows how. "It seems to me like you'd built up this idea of what your father wanted for his company and were trying too hard to match that vision, even if that vision ran counterintuitive to what you personally felt was the right thing to do. I think that it may have caused personal conflict inside of you – the good son versus the good man, even – that must have been hard to deal with, right? Can you share what helped you cope?"

 

"What helped me cope with that pressure were all the bad things in life, including a pretty substantial amount of drugs. I'm not proud of that. It's not really a coincidence that one of our first new moves is the counterdrug implementation I mentioned earlier. I know for a _fact_ that it works and does _exactly_ what it promises to do. We've progressed into marrying the drug itself with existing therapies that are already seeing higher success rates with this new arrangement, but I would never have thought of doing that if I hadn't experienced its power in bringing my own life back around."

 

His candid reply surprises her. She's suddenly acutely aware of the fact that they're sitting on a potentially explosive landmine of information she can't see the end of. Even more aware of the fact that he warned her over the phone that he was not going to hold anything back. Trish exhales a noisy breath. Rakes her hair out of her face haphazardly, leans back, and turns the information he just handed her over and over in her mind. "I'm sure you're aware that you have just made the day of many a journalist out there," she remarks wryly in the meantime, assessing the confession with a skilled view, "and probably surprised many people with your honesty. I personally have an immense respect for the fact that you're willing to share something that personal." His slight nod is encouraging, grateful even, as she muses out loud. "I know from experience how hard it is to confess to other people that you've got drug issues, or have struggled with it in the past. People may perceive you differently from that point onward, or treat you in a way that feels like they think you're made of glass or something. However, nothing was harder for me than admitting it to myself. I think that I never really wanted to be aware of it until I no longer had a choice and couldn't look away from what I was becoming anymore. Do you recognise that?"

 

His answering affirmation is something that sends them spiralling into a conversation about public perception shaped through the media versus one's own personal experiences before long. It's more open than she's used to being in an interview process, though the subject itself is intensely interesting and ties in with a problem that's very prevalent in the city these days. She knows many young people tune into her show and look to her for guidance. Looking at Ward Meachum's poise today, she thinks she may have found them another role model with the potential to inspire them and push them to achieve great things in life. She steers the conversation back to his crowning achievements and future plans before long, creating the narrative of a man who's crawled out of the dark night of his soul with newfound hope. She crafts him anew as she speaks with him, aided readily by the ease with which he's settled into the conversation, and prays it's going to be enough to protect him from the fallout. She thinks she may have succeeded at it when her soundguy holds his phone aloft and gives her a thumbs-up – a signal they use for positive Twitter feedback during the times when she's not actively checking her show's page herself.

 

They're already more than an hour into their conversation before she knows it. She's not taking any calls in the show this time, although her intern is gesturing about listener numbers shooting through the roof as she talks and cajoles Ward into another round of laughter. The tone of the interview is almost deceptively light at this point, joking even between her astute observations and his mildly sarcastic presence, but the subjects they're discussing are myriad and complex enough that the high number of listeners takes her by surprise. She challenges his narrative when she feels like it, mixing in personal opinion and "I read this and that once" with the same fervour she usually reserves for arguments with people closer to her than he. He tangles business with personal anecdotes, explains the concepts behind numbers and facts that previously always made her frown in puzzlement, and finally builds up to speaking about superpowered individuals with the same matter-of-fact manner that she's grown accustomed to. She bites back a laugh when he finally calls Danny "my personal lightning rod expertly diverting attention away from my haphazard plodding in-company", but cannot help but remark that the two seem close as brothers these days.

 

"That certainly wasn't always the case. I was a jerk to him growing up," he remarks acidly. "He was more of a happy-go-lucky individual even back then. Didn't always play well with my more controlling nature."

 

"Have you lightened up, or has Danny become more serious?"

 

"A little bit of both, I'd expect. Danny's the visionary in the company. I'm the only person who frequently tells him what he absolutely cannot do." He seems amused at that somehow, as though it's a dynamic he encourages. "With Danny being in the news this much these days, a lot more within the company falls back on my shoulders when it comes to arranging things in accordance with Rand's new vision. It's a relationship that works better for us than being stuck in meetings together all the time."

 

"There's been a fair bit of debate about superpowered individuals and their roles within society. We've heard a massive backlash against Luke Cage in particular, courtesy of powerful people such as Mariah Dillard, and even Danny himself has been subject to criticism. Does that inform how you go about involving Danny in the company?"

 

"Not at all. Superpowered individuals are merely a catalyst that forces all of us to reconsider the virtues we hold most dear in life. We've all seen them defending our city, just as we have witnessed them protect our Earth on a grander scale. We cannot understand what it is that they do for us unless we ask ourselves what we find worth protecting, saving, holding dear." The tremor is back in his fingers now that he's going out on a limb and speaking with renewed passion about humanity's future. She smiles encouragingly at him. "At Rand, we no longer help build skyscrapers. Instead, we team up with organisations that provide low incomes with housing and other amenities. We no longer profit millions off medicine and other healthcare aspects, but have redirected our efforts in medicine at research and prevention entirely. We're the first multinational to create fair contracts for all who work with us, including for those resource providers in third world countries whose biggest concern is literally staying alive." He shakes his head. His eyes are suddenly very far away. "My father used to say that it's the right of the mighty to make the rules. In all honesty, that's all I'm doing. Making new rules."

 

"In the hopes those rules will inspire others to take your lead and follow?"

 

"Absolutely, yes."

 

*****

 

She doesn't make a habit out of going out to dinner with her interview subjects. In fact, it's a line she never crossed for herself before. She defends her action to herself with a reminder that she knew him personally prior to the interview. The far more treacherous part of her mind supplies a counterargument that says "just because you got drunk off your ass with him doesn't mean you can be _friends_ ", but she tells it to shut up the same way she tells Jess to please give things a rest.

 

Something of the same kind of conflict crosses his expression when she asks him to join her at the restaurant that's about a block away from the studio. It's one of her staple favourites, she admits to him when he doesn't say anything in reply. She's dimly aware that she's sort-of babbling – no _shit_ , Walker – but she _has_ to sing the praises of their food to him even if he doesn't take her up on the offer. She doesn't say that this is the one thing that got her eating normally again after all her mother's machinations had convinced her that not eating was a good thing, but thinks her history with it reflects in the way she describes the food “like coming home and curling up in a warm bed, it's _so_ good” and the ambiance “like this living and breathing Italian space that has the vibe of Rome on a sunny day”.

 

"You're serious about the invitation?" His voice is soft. His eyes bright with something that she tells herself cannot _possibly_ be wonder. His forehead creases in thought for a moment. Then, he surprises both her and himself by agreeing. "Okay."

 

" _You're_ serious?" she echoes back at him. "No takebacks, Ward."

 

He rolls his eyes at her enthusiasm, to which she just offers a brilliant smile of her own. She'd already stayed at work longer than she'd intended. They'd gotten a little caught up debating the merits of research into powered individuals, with her cautioning him that too much of it would make it seem like Rand wants to harness those powers for itself. He'd been quick to resolve her concern, but a mention of Captain America later brought them right back to square one of the original argument. She hides a smile as she contemplates their differences. He's cold in arguments, careful with his words, biting and scathing in all the small ways that could offend a person. She's spitfire in comparison, jumping in before she has all the facts, reacting out of instinct to the little jabs he throws her way. It's something that could easily escalate into full-blown fights and insults. Somehow, it never quite does.

 

Still, she takes his proffered arm readily as they exit the building. There's an easy companionship between them now that is no longer fueled by alcohol alone, though it takes every ounce of her willpower to not tease him mercilessly when he is surprised at having to walk the block to the restaurant. She cannot resist kicking back at him in half-seriousness when he tells her about the security detail he used to have.

 

“You're _such_ a spoiled brat,” she remarks in light of that comment, frowning up at him. “Maybe you should just take some self-defense classes. I do krav maga.”

 

“Krav maga never looks like self-defense to me,” he comments, only raising his eyebrow slightly at her admission that she's versed in it. “And when exactly do you think I'd get the time to follow a class like that, anyway?”

 

She shoots him a 'no duh'-look that she's pretty sure sets his teeth on edge. “You pay for a private instructor, of course.” Is surprised she even has to spell this out for him. She pulls her sleeve up to show him a bruise that's formed on her upper arm. “Better to get these from practice than to get them because some asshole shoved you into a wall or floored you or something. If you keep hanging out with Danny, you might as well..”

 

“Danny and I do not 'hang out',” he remarks sourly, eyeing her bruise rather warily. “I doubt it's going to be that effective, anyway.”

 

She stops dead in her tracks at that. Slings her bag off her shoulder and pushes it at him until he has no choice but to take it out of her hands. “Watch this space right here,” she grins, gesturing excitedly at the more-or-less empty sidewalk that sprawls out before them. Ward, bless him, actually takes two steps back at her announcement. She squares her shoulders. Breathes herself into centre. Delivers a series of fast punches to the air before her, which is hampered only by the fact that the last one makes her wobble precariously on her heels for a second. She turns back to him. “See? Okay, the last one was pretty much me winging it with all the grace of a newborn deer,” she amends with a broad smile, “but you can't deny that it's got _style_.”

 

“Those tourists over there certainly thought so,” he remarks, nodding at a small cluster of photographs-taking people on the other end of the street. He eyes her critically. “It was not bad.”

 

She gasps. “Not bad? I'll show you 'not bad', mister!” Mock-punches his shoulder in the next few seconds. “How's that?”

 

If she didn't know better, she would swear she just saw the ghost of a smile on his face before he ducks his head. “You're a menace,” he concedes, “and I am in awe of your powers.”

 

“Don't mock me.”

 

Ward raises his hands defensively. “Not mocking. I would never dare mock the great Patricia Walker, former child star turned radio talk show host, investigative journalist, all-around pain in New York's ass, and sister to a Defender.”

 

“You do realise that my punch just now was not me at full strength, right?”

 

He laughs in earnest now, eyes crinkling in amusement, and shakes his head in reply. “I have seen far scarier things in this city than you. Feel free to punch me again for that.”

 

“Masochist.”

 

“Only on my good days.”

 

“You must be having a great one right now,” she laughs, raking a hand through her hair. Smiles to herself when she realises she always arrives at _Giuseppe's_ with some form of casual fanfare as she announces their arrival to Ward. “Here we are, then. Best Italian in the city!”

 

_Giuseppe's_ is known for dinner rushes on days that lead into the weekend, but the restaurant doesn't look to be too crowded yet. It's never dark like other restaurants are prone to be, nor is it one of the posh places her mother always dragged her to. She doesn't think she can stomach candlelight dinners with anyone anymore, not after her string of badly-ending dates and casual relationships gone wrong. _Giuseppe's_ is just like how home is meant to feel, with comfort cushioning her back and the food being served on porcelain that wouldn't look out of place in an Italian mother's kitchen.

 

Ward's face is a mixture of anticipation and apprehension when Giuseppe himself walks up to greet them. The elderly Italian is one of Trish's favourite people in New York – funny, warm, always good for a kind word and gesture – and he certainly doesn't disappoint when he shepherds them toward one of the booths in the back of the restaurant. If anything, the man understands her perpetual need to stay out of the spotlight. All it takes for him to warm up to Ward is an admission that Ward's never had his food before but is looking to remedy that situation at once. Giuseppe squeezes her arm in gratitude, which is how she knows that he recognised Ward and decided not to mention anything as he welcomed the man to his restaurant.

 

The one thing she loves most about _Giuseppe's_ , however, is the fast service that always brings her good food and one of the cook's latest experiments. It doesn't take long for the dishes to hit their table. Her stomach growls in expectance of more carbs and chocolate than even she can safely eat. He raises his eyebrows in obvious amusement as she makes a humming noise and digs right into the meal set in front of them. The portions he takes are smaller, measured, as though he is worried about taking too much. She raises an eyebrow of her own. Pushes a little extra onto his plate after only a moment of inner debate.

 

“My mom used to shovel extra spaghetti onto my plate too, when Joy wasn't looking,” he comments, eyes never leaving his plate. “She used to make it from scratch. Not quite like this, this is a classic pomodoro sauce and she always was fonder of stronger bolognese..” His voice trails off into nothing as he blinks and looks away from their table.

 

Trish wants to kick herself. “I'm sorry,” she offers quietly. _Definitely_ is going to kick herself about this later. “You should've said–”

 

“Said what?” He sounds almost waspish now, though his eyes are still studiously avoiding her. “That my mother's family is one big string of loud Italians and that I haven't eaten any of this food in years because I'm this stupid..” His nostrils flare as he exhales a noisy breath. “I'm this stupid kid who always thinks of her at the most inopportune moments and is now at risk of ruining what should have been a perfectly fine dinner?”

 

“Listen to me.” Her hand lands on his hand with some measure of force. She locks down on him in a vice-like grip as he means to pull away. “No. Ward. _Listen_.” She's aware she's in full-on Trish-gets-scary mode, leaning forward across the table and lowering her voice until it comes out in a steady stream that Jess once said is impossible not to drown in. Trish doesn't care. He needs to hear this. “I promise you're not ruining anything. You're _not_ a stupid kid for missing your mom.”

 

“Feels pretty stupid to me,” he says, but his eyes are shifting back to the food and his hand is relaxing beneath hers infinitesimally.

 

“We'll pick another restaurant next time.” She shrugs and briefly pats his hand before withdrawing from him again. “I'll even let you pick it, despite my overwhelming fear we're going to wind up drunk at Taco Bell sooner or later.”

 

They don't comment on how she just admitted there will probably be a 'next time' of this somewhere down the line. Don't comment on her admission of there probably being alcohol involved in there at some point, even though they both conceded last time that staying sober would likely be preferable in future. She pretends not to notice his sudden flustered demeanour and changes the subject from food to something else with the well-practiced ease forged by surviving years of Jessica and her mother.

 

There's less danger for him in learning just how often she'd tumbled off the practice mat feeling like she was stronger and yet more breakable at the same time. Nothing like a fight to remind you of your own mortality. She's gesturing animatedly as she talks, jabbing her fork at him regularly to emphasize one point or another.

 

He, on his part, finally admits to having taken exactly one boxing class before realising it wasn't at all his thing. Ward seems to think he's not born to stand on a mat and do battle. Seems content just being about business with very little time spent on anything for himself. Something about his casual approach to fighting propels her to observe that perhaps it's not a necessity for men as it is for women to know how to defend themselves.

 

He tilts his head in reply, clearly pondering it. That fact alone – his willingness to consider her opinion, even when he is already opening his mouth to deliver a scathing comment on _Men Are From Mars_ -bullshit – makes her decide there is definitely going to be a next time of this. It's not like he's the first to listen to her, but he is the only one willing to _argue_ about the things she says. (Jess doesn't count, because Jess would argue with the grass in Central Park about being the wrong shade of green if given half the chance and plenty of liquor.)

 

"You didn't exaggerate the greatness of this food," he tells her then, after he's cleared half the plate of spaghetti. His tone is positively appreciative. "That's some good stuff. I've been missing out.”

 

"Only the best for the person who just survived two hours of my interviewing them."

 

"You're good at it." He shrugs noncommittally, as though he didn't contribute to the interview's success at all. "You ask the right questions, lead back on track if it goes too wildly off-course, actually listen to what someone's got to say.. It's a rare gift."

 

"My very own superpower," she jokes. "A little heads-up about the timebomb would've been nice, though."

 

"I did warn you."

 

"Warn me in the way of 'oh yeah by the way I might say some surprising things', not warn me in the way of 'oh by the way I used to be a drug addict and I think now would be a perfect time to tell you'," she admonishes him with a smile. Jabs her fork at him in mid-air. "You're lucky that we got that back on track before Twitter exploded into nasty stuff. What on earth made you come clean? Pun fully intended, by the way."

 

He snorts in appreciation. "I don't really know. I felt awkward about it going in. Then we were talking, and I felt like I could just say it and have you pick it up to help me fix it. Told you, you're good at your job." He's not trying to flatter her or impress her with the compliments. She can tell by the way that he's fidgeting in his seat that saying nice things to people isn't his first instinct. (Maybe not even his second.) "Maybe it was just time to say it, too, who knows? I'm glad you didn't yell at me over it."

 

"I thought about it. _Very_ briefly."

 

"Can I ask why you didn't?"

 

"The night's still young, my friend," she warns him with a smirk, "so don't push it. This spaghetti may be the last meal you'll ever have."

 

They devolve into friendly sniping at each other over dinner, even as the restaurant begins to fill up with people and people begin to stare into their direction more and more. Ward's polished smile becomes a little more forced and she can tell by the strain around his eyes that he's not used to receiving this much attention from the public at once. She clips her hair back into a casual ponytail as a full-on act of rebellion when the staff serves their ice-creams, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue at the lady seated a few tables over who's looking her up and down with absolute distaste written across her features. (She's grown up too much to actually do it, but the urge will always persist.)

 

Ward remarks on her casual ease at handling the attention with a degree of envy, to which she smiles enigmatically and replies "that's showbiz, darling" with all the wide-eyed allure of a movie star. It's a feat she knows is slightly marred by the fact that she can't eat chocolate without it landing somewhere on her face, which is proven by her napkin coming away from her cheek with a distinct chocolate-y stain on it.

 

“That's more than showbiz. That's actual poise.”

 

She waves her spoon at him. “Practice. You're high-profile enough to warrant the attention, too, so you'd best get used to having people side-eye the fuck out of your dinner.” Trish shrugs casually. “I have to admit, _this_ is a hazard of being seen with me. People will talk.”

 

“Let them talk.”

 

She appraises him slowly as they finish up dessert. “If the spotlight itself isn't absolutely terrifying to you, then what is?”

 

“All the crap that Danny gets up to,” he says instantly, heaving a sigh at the admission. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something big to happen that's going to mess with my life forever.”

 

"You really _should_ think about doing some kind of combat training," she tells him matter-of-factly. “It might not help once the big thing hits, but it'll make you feel a bit better about your survival chances.”

 

"And I repeat: why on _earth_ would I subject myself to that?" He frowns and leans back in his chair. "I'm still a suits-guy, not a sweatpants-guy."

 

"Well, suits-guy, you might need it if you keep hanging out with the likes of Danny. I needed it back when Jessica was going through some stuff, too. Glad I did." That is the understatement of the flipping century, of course, but the last thing she wants to do is scare him off permanently. There are a time and a place to ease somebody into the time you almost died from taking combat enhancers, and she's pretty sure that Friday nights at _Giuseppe's_ does not fit that bill. "You might think that all this bullshit won't land on your doorstep. That you can just go on and live a normal life while the rest of the world changes around you. That's not the way this works."

 

"My life's never been normal."

 

"You know what? Neither has mine."

 

A pause.

 

Then: "Do you know a good trainer?"

 


	3. Chapter 3

A month or so later, she's not entirely sure of why Ward Meachum hasn't vanished out of her life just yet. They've met for lunch several times. Dinner only once more since _Giuseppe's_. It's become a pattern in her life the same way as picking up her clothes from the drycleaner's and rattling off new opinions in her radioshow. He's become part of it, slotting seamlessly into the spaces she never knew were empty before they met.

 

Trish has developed the unfortunate habit of calling him late in the evenings to unload about her most trying days. At one point, at her lowest of the year probably, she's screaming down the phone at him that her mother can go straight to hell. He responded to it with a simple "where are you?" that eventually ended with them devouring a pint of ice cream between them on the floor of her living room. She hadn't wanted to talk about her mother's recent machinations, so he just talked about anything but that until his voice grew hoarse. They don't speak of that night, but she doesn't forget that he stayed up with her until four in the morning.

 

Ward, on his part, texts her random smartass comments during the day and calls her when he's doing what she dubs 'the boring thing' by having dinner alone in his office. His utter loathing for the media has made her laugh plenty of times, especially when it results in his early morning calls being inundated with his own observations of the latest headlines. Ward is more callous with his drinks than she, sobriety a far cry between them in their most stressful moments, and far less convinced that eating healthily is the way to a long and happy life. She shouldn't like him as much as she does. (But oh, she does.)

 

There are slivers of him seeping through every aspect of her life.

 

"Penny for your thoughts."

 

She shakes herself out of her own mind and glances sideways at a smiling Karen Page. The blonde reporter looks elated this evening, probably flying the high of having been appointed as one of the Bulletin's steady staff members. Trish did a little victory dance in the confines of her radio studio when that news broke. "Nobody deserves it more than you," she'd told Karen, firmly, over their victory dinner that same evening. Victory dinner at _Giuseppe's_ had called to mind another dinner quite haphazardly, however. She's not sure of when her life stopped being a series of compartmentalised structures. Thinks that, between Karen and Ward, she's got all the unpredictability of a life she'd never even considered having. There are others, too, locked into her life in half-friendship and half-acquaintance that comes with the territory of being friends with a superpowered human being.

 

"Nothing you want to know, trust me," she wryly tells Karen now. Sets a drink in front of the blonde quite decisively. "I'm not drinking by my lonesome tonight, girlfriend. What's up in the land of dogwalker and reporter?"

 

She stifles a grin as Karen sighs and pointedly declares there's absolutely _nothing_ going on in that land. Trish knows better, of course. Dogwalker is the nickname she'd bestowed on Frank Castle the second time she met the man. As she'd explained to Karen, he'd looked like any regular guy walking his dog in the park and they'd been in sore need of a nickname that didn't lead people to discover the Punisher's whereabouts in any way. It was just common sense to call him Dogwalker.

 

Trish doesn't know much about Frank Castle all in all, but she knows enough about him to know that he is not the type to lead a quiet life. Neither is Karen, for that matter, although her friend tries to hide her very real draw to danger with smiles and niceties for as long as Trish has known her. She thinks if anyone can stand up to Castle, it's probably going to be Karen. From what she knows of the man, it seems like he could use someone to be there for him at his worst.

 

Castle'd been gruff toward her, though there was a begrudging tone of respect in the man's voice when she'd handed him the information Karen said he'd wanted. She supposes that, to a man like Castle, an absence of fear of him was almost unheard of. Trish doesn't have time to be afraid of people anymore. Nor does she have the energy for it, which suits her quite well in dealing with people she really doesn't want to have in her life any more than necessary.

 

"What's up with you?" asks Karen, then, and Trish groans out a reply that should be sufficient in saying she doesn't want to talk about it. Her friend's blue eyes lock onto hers a little too steel-like for Trish's taste. Too observant by far, too. "Are you still hanging out with that CEO-guy? How's that going?"

 

" _Ooohh_. C-E-O-guy, f _ancy_!" That's Marci Stahl's familiar voice landing at her ear, laughing and drawing out on the 'o'-notes like a regular jumped-up teenager. The woman herself gives the most haphazard hugs known to man, but Trish pats the arms that are suddenly slung around her all the same. She shakes her head morosely at the new arrival and downs the last part of her drink. The lawyer slides onto the third seat at their table with her usual ease. "Who's the very lucky fella?"

 

"I don't know about lucky," says Trish, at the same time at which Karen says "Ward Meachum" in a cat-ate-the-canary tone that's decidedly far too chipper for her.

 

Marci's eyes widen comically at the name for a millisecond before narrowing again. Trish feels a short jab of pain shoot through her ribs as the blonde pokes her in them good-naturedly and crows about not being told anything. Karen's shaking her head at the other woman while mentioning that she hasn't said a word about her asking Foggy to move in with her either. At this news, Trish's head whips around fast and she quickly jabs a "no phone call?" at Marci before she can help herself. The lawyer just grins and shrugs. Mentions how it's all still very new, but at least Foggy's not hogging the sock drawer as though his life depends on it anymore.

 

"It feels like we haven't talked in _forever_ ," Marci says then, with all the air of someone who's been entirely too busy to exist in the real world. "That case I'm working on has soaked up almost every inch of my life. I'm in and out for drinks this evening because I will _die_ if I don't get a Merlot into me that tastes like friendship."

 

"Scotch for me," admits Karen.

 

"Water," smiles Trish, "because I've already had two Martinis against my better judgment and I'm _pretty_ sure I shouldn't get drunk this fine evening if I want to survive your third degree."

 

"Honey, I would never," replies Marci.

 

"Yeah, you would."

 

"Okay, yes, I would, I'm going to, what am I saying?" The other woman's throaty laugh warms Trish's heart. Marci's all business until the moment she isn't, hardened by the job and softened the second she spots someone in trouble. Trish thinks she loves the woman simply for breathing the same air as her, for being in her life at all. It's the Martinis talking, she knows that much too, but nevertheless she rests her head against Marci's shoulder briefly. "Okay, sugar, that's enough lovin' from you." Karen hides a giggle at the lawyer's fake-panicked tone. Trish starts laughing too when the woman actually takes the time to push her off again. "Tell me about the other lovin'. How in the hell did you bag yourself a bachelor by the likes of Ward freakin' Meachum, huh?"

 

Trish sobers up abruptly. Glares. "I didn't bag him. We're just friends."

 

"He looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. 'Just friends' don't look at each other like that." Karen's voice sounds a little too knowing. Trish points out rather acidly that Karen's only met the man exactly once and that that's not enough to go on. The reporter shrugs. "Don't have to meet him more than once to know when someone's head over heels.."

 

"How's your dogwalking coming along?" asks Marci, suddenly. They laugh as Karen stutters to a halt, flushing bright red even in the dim light of the bar. The lawyer's mercy doesn't extend so far as to not mention Ward again, though, because she rounds on Trish again in almost the same breath as her final laugh. "No, but _seriously_ , I only know you interviewed him that one time and got a bunch of accolades and praises coming your way for it. It was tell-all hours on your show that day. Everybody was talking about it at the firm. Even Hogarth thought it was fan- _tas_ -tic. And I think she doesn't even like Meachum."

 

"Nobody really does," snorts Trish as she steals a cherry from the recently abandoned table next to them. Pops it into her mouth. Considers. "Except me, and maybe Danny, and _possibly_ Claire."

 

"Claire's far too forgiving of people," mutters Karen rather darkly, "and Danny doesn't see the harm in anyone until it's too late. You're the only sensical person who actually thinks the world of him, you know that, right?"

 

"You liked him, too."

 

"I liked him until he breezed his way past my very good questions during that press conference."

 

"Not that again!" moans Trish. "Told you, he had a bad day."

 

"He gave you all the space you needed to straighten his tie, though."

 

"I was actually telling him to stay away from that Rachel chick who's got that new show about New York bachelors," grumbles Trish. Winces at the memory of the woman practically throwing herself at Ward. "Besides, you could've asked me every single one of those questions and I would've known the answers too."

 

"Next time, I'll cite _you_ as the source for any and all Ward Meachum quotes. Oh, and Rachel is a simpering fool if she thinks she's going to get within a thousand feet of him and _not_ get shipped out the door next time."

 

Marci is watching the two of them as though she's watching a very interesting game. Offers Trish another Martini and tells Karen to knock back her scotch and leave the argument at home moments later. Karen's answering scowl breaks the buzz of tension entirely. Before they know it, they're slumped over laughing about something or other that won't make any sense in hindsight. They laugh until Karen's crying and Marci's gasping for breath and Trish feels a little bit on the right side of queasy again. She pushes Karen's words to the back of her skull firmly. Tells herself there is no way he feels any such way about her. Focuses back on their conversation that has transitioned to Foggy's obsession with socks and Karen's conviction that socks are the devil with a vague smile.

 

“Is anybody else working on that Midland Circle bullshit?” asks Karen suddenly, eyes lighting up in a way that spells out 'danger'. “I keep running into tendrils of theirs when working on stories lately, almost as if they're moving things behind the scenes. Can't put my finger on how, though.”

 

“Hogarth's been making me go through _tons_ of stuff on Rand's subsidiaries,” moans Marci, steadily chugging her Merlot back as she complains. “Midland Circle's one of those, or they used to be before your boyfriend,” she waves at Trish, “decided to uproot Rand entirely following some kind of debacle that Hogarth's eye always twitches weirdly about if you ask her.”

 

Trish shoots Marci a rather wary look, but decides to shove the comment about Ward aside in favour of the actual subject. “Next time, ask Hogarth about the time Harold Meachum came back from the dead,” she says conversationally, not missing a beat as Karen chokes on her drink and Marci actually puts her head in her hands to let out a scream. “I've been seeing Midland Circle in some of the documents my mother sent me last week. And, yes, she really is _that_ toxic, saying she has more information if I'll just talk to her,” she sidelines to a frowning Karen. “Most of the Midland Circle stuff in there is related to them being one of IGH's money-shooters, but there's no explanation as to why a financial company whose main line of interest is architecture is suddenly also interested in a paramilitary organisation.”

 

“IGH, you say?” Karen's actually whipped out a small notepad and a pen during Trish's talk. Is scribbling out some shorthand notes in rapid succession, pausing only to reach over and take a sip of Trish's water. “I think I've seen that name before. I will ask Frank's other source about it when I see him next. He'll be able to uncover some of that stuff without you having to resort to your mom's toxicity.”

 

Trish raises her glass and nods at Karen in appreciation. The reporter doesn't know full details about life in the Walker household, but knows enough to be wary of anything Dorothy Walker gets her hands on. Not for the first time, Trish wonders about Karen's own family. She knows all about Marci's long line of loudmouthed relatives, including a first cousin Trish dated exactly once, but she doesn't know the first thing about Karen's other than the fact that the leggy blonde hails from Vermont. (And _that_ fact, she had only really uncovered after hearing the woman's opinions on maple syrup.)

 

“I haven't seen anything relating back to IGH,” admits Marci, bringing Trish's attention back to the present, “but Foggy might have because he's dealing with another branch of the legal stuff. Hogarth might have a clue on where to look in case that doesn't pan out.”

 

“God, Hogarth scares me,” mutters Karen darkly. “We should all get our stuff together and share what we've got, you know? We might actually figure out what's going on before we get jumped again like we did with the Hand last time.”

 

“Oh god, don't remind me.” Marci's eyes widen in horror. “I could do without Foggy screeching about ninjas chasing him at two in the morning. They almost blew up Hogarth's office, too, but I think she maced two of them in the face and stopped that explosion through sheer force of will alone.”

 

“I could do without Matt's idea of protective custody next time, too.”

 

“I could do without having to drive Jess to the hospital myself next time. I still don't know how Claire kept her alive long enough.” Trish shakes her head morosely. “I really don't want us to repeat the same mistakes we made last time. We waited way too long to pool our resources.”

 

“Part of that was Matt's fault.”

 

“ _Everything_ is Matt's fault,” says Karen. The reporter's voice is always just on the side of bitter when talking about the blind vigilante, though she still passes relevant information to him now and again. There's a whole lot of history lurking in the set of her shoulders. “If Claire hadn't yelled at him, I don't know what would've happened. Maybe New York would finally just have.. crumbled.”

 

“Thank god for Claire,” drawls Marci. The nurse had certainly been the glue to pull all Defenders together, mixing street-smart Luke with eager-to-learn Danny and blending take-no-shit Jessica with always-starting-shit Matt, and it was only due to Claire's continuous interference that the four had finally learned to work together. “Without her, we would not be friends.”

 

That part was true also, and Trish found herself echoing the sentiment alongside Karen. Somewhere in the middle of Claire running the show, Trish had found herself at the New York Bulletin exchanging a series of rapidfire comments with Marci before a confused Karen had taken charge of the impromptu meeting by emptying several boxes of information onto the floor. Between Marci's legal knowledge, Trish's city knowledge, and Karen's bursts of insight, they had managed to put two and two together on what the Hand could possibly want with New York City. They had wound up scaring Karen's boss Ellison half to death the next morning, which Karen loves to claim was the actual start of their triple-threat friendship.

 

“The Hand's gone, right?” asks Karen warily. “I mean, we haven't really seen their influence around lately as far as I recall. I'd hate for us to focus in on Midland Circle when The Hand's still active..”

 

“They've withdrawn their tentacles from most of the city,” confirms Trish, finally succumbing to the small nibbles that came with their drinks, “but it's a mythical organisation that's been around for longer than we've been alive. Don't think it's the first time they've gone underground. Ward said that removing their sway within Rand likely dealt them a huge blow they will struggle to recover from, though.” She smirks at the thought of that. “Their influence over the company died with Harold Meachum, and I'm pretty sure that if they were still active now they would try to murder Ward for what he's done to them.”

 

“The list of subsidiaries from Rand has to do with..?” Marci trails off, looking rather shaken. “Midland Circle's on that list. IGH is probably on that list by extension – I should really get you some copies of that, Trish, you'd likely be able to tell which other subsidiaries are associated with IGH.” Marci's face is a display of the rapidfire thoughts that are undoubtedly clicking together in her brain. There is a take-charge quality to her voice that has been honed by years spent in courtrooms. “If all of those are associated with The Hand, then maybe they're not as gone as we think they are. Maybe they have just moved their operations from Rand and New York City to something else. We need to figure this out.”

 

“I am not telling Jess about this until we're sure.” Trish rubs her eyes tiredly. Knows that her sister is still self-medicating her trauma out the door and would most likely jump straight back into self-destruct mode upon learning The Hand might still be active today. “I'll come review your files at your office before Hogarth pulls you into another shouting match about confidentiality issues, Marci. I'll sign whatever papers she wants me to if that makes her feel better about me reviewing that list of yours, too.” She rakes her hand through her hair. Turns toward Karen. “Do you think I could talk with Frank's source, too?”

 

Karen's brow knits into a frown. “Not without him digging into every last scrap of your life first to make sure you're not some kind of double agent or worse,” she admits. “He can get a _little_ paranoid. With good reason, mind you, but even I had to have a bit of a shouting match with him before he told me where to find Frank after.. well..”

 

“After the dust cleared,” says Marci grimly.

 

Trish contemplates her last Martini. “You guys know that saying.. more like a curse, really, I think it is? The one where you tell someone 'may you always live in interesting times'?” Upon their nods, she grimaces and swigs back the bit of liquid that's still left in the glass. “I think someone must've cursed all of us.”

 

“All of New York, you mean,” snorts Karen seconds later, nodding her head in ferocious agreement. “We the living.”

 

“We the brave!” cheers Marci.

 

“We the fucking few,” remarks Trish darkly.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene in this chapter officially marked the change from oneshot to multichapter fic in my writing process. It's also one of the earliest and most untouched scenes from the first draft -- I think you'll be able to tell why this one just came together and _worked_ from the start!

Trish knows that the specification 'bring a partner' written on an invitation to one of the fanciest fundraisers of the year is just asking for all sorts of trouble. Usually, it's the kind of trouble that leads to someone's curtains being set on fire while _I Will Always Love You_ is playing dramatically in the background. It could also be the kind of trouble that leads to Trish being subjected to yet another date from hell that she winds up freezing out halfway through the evening.

 

This year's trouble comes with the courtesy of Karen Page. However the woman's sway in the city has now expanded to include fundraisers is beyond Trish, but upon seeing Karen's meticulous notes about the guest list she reconsiders the woman's fortune entirely. Knows then that it's not the woman's idea of a good time to rub shoulders with half of the city's elite, but rather an idea born out of the necessity of helping a hardened vigilante out.

 

Frank Castle isn't exactly an inconspicuous fundraiser date, so that is why Trish finds herself hanging on Karen's arm as the woman's date for the night. (Foggy had taken one look at the guest list and baulked at being Karen's date. Trish doesn't think she blames him, not really, not when the list features half of the people that Foggy would like to decimate in court.)

 

Trish _knows_ she's the decoy of the evening, meant to get tongues wagging about a dream team of female journalists, and she considers she's pretty much fine with that. Another, younger part of her would've jumped for joy at being able to hold the hand of a pretty lady all evening. She smiles at the thought as it comes along, remembering the evenings of sloppy kisses and drunken fumbling with an array of girlfriends. Notes with a snort that Marci might still be up for that, and tells Karen as much seconds later when the blonde's brow furrows at the snort. The other woman rolls her eyes and comments with a smile that Marci absolutely would _not_ but Karen just might, which leaves Trish humming with contentment while whispering a victorious "still got it!" that almost makes Karen laugh.

 

Her eyes lock onto Ward Meachum's tall, slender frame seconds later and all thoughts of casual kisses with friends evaporate into the background of something altogether _new_. He hasn't spotted her yet, deep in conversation as he is with other men in suits and their simpering wives. She raises an eyebrow at the latter. She's suddenly, abruptly, reminded of how her mother wanted her to be. Pliable, fresh, young, beautiful, rich, docile. _Exactly_ like those women.

 

Her face contorts into something that blends fury with ice. She hates reminders of what she is meant to be to people. Hates being confronted with her mother's vision for a future that Trish has fought so hard not to have. Another, far more treacherous part of herself reacts with the coil of fear and insecurity constricting her tummy. If Ward was raised to expect this kind of woman as normal.. then who is she to him, who can she possibly be?

 

“Cut it out, you're going to scare the guests,” hisses Karen, having cottoned onto Trish's cold fury. She doesn't seem to catch the conflicting identity crisis, but maybe Karen doesn't have to. Her friend's reassuring smile at the people standing closest to them could shatter diamonds with its strength. “Remember, we are not here to cause a scene.”

 

Trish rolls her shoulders back expertly and huffs out a breath. Regroups herself even when her veins are screaming furiously to never be docile and the heat in her body reminds her that she's only pliable when she feels like making someone beg. Commands an easy smile to tug at her lips even when her eyes are a frosty mess. It's at that moment Ward finally turns around and sees them standing there.

 

"I'm going to hunt for Sandberg," remarks Karen with all the elegance and tact of an elephant that got stuck in a porcelain cupboard. "Try to stay inconspicuous, okay?"

 

"You're one to talk," she quickly shoots off at Karen's retreating form. All she gets from the woman is a very subtle middle finger in reply, to which Trish rolls her eyes. She fidgets on the spot now that Ward's making his way over to her. Notices how people's eyes follow him around the room as he walks. Mutters softly to herself. "So much for inconspicuous.."

 

His face barely betrays his emotions, but his eyes warm the closer he steps toward her. She knows he's happy to see her – _overjoyed_ , a treacherous voice in her head supplies matter-of-factly – when he finally stands in front of her and embraces her briefly. It's a stiff embrace from a man who doesn't ordinarily do public displays of affection, which delights her so much that she lets her lips brush past his cheek in greeting. There is a slight flush to his cheeks as he looks down at her. She smiles back and says a soft hello. Apologises for Karen's hasty departure seconds later while also informing him that this is very much Karen's party of the evening and not so much hers. She hates these back-rubbing meetings that are poor excuses to show off how much money you're worth. Tells him that much, too.

 

"I'd expected as much," he says gravely, "which is why it's... unexpected.. to see you here. I suppose Miss Page's powers of conviction are a sight to behold, aren't they?"

 

"They sure are," she tells him conversationally as she loops one of her arms through his. "She's working, of course. Off the record. I'm here to keep her out of too much trouble, so I might have to vanish on short notice." He merely nods at her words. Mouths the word 'Castle?' seconds later when he pulls her off to the side of the room. Trish nods at that. Karen's continued connection to the vigilante has been blown wide open again since a rival reporter's photographs put her on a park bench next to Castle. She's surprised Karen can even stand to be in this room that seems to be buzzing with words about vigilantes and the city's justice. Even more surprised that the blonde's holding her head up high and discussing something animatedly with a group of grey-haired men. She looks Ward up and down seconds later. Notices the blueish grey of his suit with an appraising eye. "You look good," she remarks. "That's a great colour."

 

"You look stunning yourself." His voice has dropped to nothing more than a breath in the small space between them. She flashes him a knowing grin, although the tone he takes with her makes her skin prickle with anticipation. She opted for a very simple black dress today. Piled her hair up high on her head until only a few wisps escaped the mould she was trying to fit into. She doesn't feel like anything special, but she knows she looks good. Her ego's assured of that much, at least. His voice is now a murmur she has to strain to catch. "You always do, but tonight.."

 

"Tonight what?" she whispers back into the quiet that forms between them.

 

A flash of bright light interrupts whatever he was going to say in reply. She turns to the photographer in annoyance. Knows the man on sight as someone who'd do _anything_ for good gossip. _Great._ Just what they needed. She rolls her eyes as the man begins to apologise profusely to "Mr Meachum and Patsy Walker", turning heads in their vicinity and making them centrepieces of attention. Trish smiles their newfound attention off to the best of her ability, nodding at the people she knows and tightening her hold on Ward's arm slightly. Ward's response to it is slightly more impatient, with a mumbled "fuck this to _hell_ " and a much louder "you startled us" tumbling out of his mouth rapidly. He steers her away from the apologetic photographer at the earliest opportunity.

 

To her regret, they get swept up by the room's momentum seconds later. It's a testament to their popularity that everyone seems to want to speak to them and get their opinions on some matters. She knows she should be grateful for the many compliments streaming her way by women both older and younger than her, telling her how much they love the show and how they wish she would get her face back on TV again. She smiles in appreciation when she gets the opportunity to support Ward's bid for support from one of the medicine moguls present at the fundraiser. The mogul's got an eye for pretty blondes, which she distinctly recalls from the last time she interviewed the man, and so she drops her physical contact with Ward until she's secured his word that he'll listen to the deal Rand Enterprises can offer him. The surprise that etches itself onto Ward's face at the ready agreement is worth every ounce of simpering she's done to get that to work.

 

_Take that, mother,_ she thinks rather viciously. _So much for quiet and docile._

 

Ward's hand comes to rest on the small of her back as he steers her through the crowd with the expertise of a man who knows how to navigate tedious fundraisers. His warmth seeps through the thin fabric of her gown, setting her spine alight with tingles that are not just her own jittery nerves talking anymore. She edges closer toward him and rests a hand on his waist comfortably as he speaks with a CEO she's already forgotten the name of. She's dimly aware of this move having consequences in the morning. Possibly even consequences for longer than that. She doesn't have it in herself to care. She tracks Karen's movements on the far end of the room lazily, though currently her friend seems more occupied with getting herself a drink than with finding out whatever information she was after. She smiles softly when Karen gives her an excited thumbs-up that could mean anything ranging from "got what I wanted" to "go get yourself a man". She almost misses Marci's dry wit telling her "it's definitely the latter, sweetcheeks".

 

She's practically tucked under Ward's arm when they finally escape out onto the balcony for a moment. She doesn't venture too far out, not with Karen to babysit, but he doesn't seem to mind that they come to a halt just outside of the room. His hand brushes her shoulder in a gesture she's come to identify as uncertain affection, touched by the hesitance in his fingers and the pause in his movements. She tightens her own hold on him reflexively. Laughs softly when she realises this is the closest they've ever been physically, although their mock-battle about the last spoon of ice cream isn't too far off from this. His brow creases when she shares her casual observation with him.

 

"Do you mind?" he asks. His voice twinges with hesitation. He looks almost angry at himself when he hurries to explain. "This, I mean. The touching."

 

She's quick to reassure him. "Not at all. Just found it funny that we're not the public displays of affection people until the evening when, well, we are." He cracks a rather tentative smile at that. "We're going to be tabloid fodder in the morning. Between that photographer and all the people we met, they're going to draw some conclusions about you and me." She hesitates now, too. Ploughs on regardless, because she _really_ has to know and she is _not_ walking away from confronting the elephant in the room. Growing up with Jessica has hardened her resolve that much. "Are you okay with that?"

 

"We probably already are public knowledge, given the power of the internet." He smirks at her, and she punches his arm lightly. "I'm okay with anything you want. It's your call, Miss Walker."

 

She tilts her head at that. "Miss Walker, huh?"

 

"Can't call you Patsy. You'd drag me off, murder me, hide the body, never speak of me again." He's now openly grinning at her. Bastard. "Besides, this is a formal function. Very Mister-and-Miss. You know the drill."

 

"You're kidding," she moans in reply. Grins wickedly all of a sudden as an idea comes to mind. "Please stop, Mr Meachum."

 

His answering shudder is all she wanted to see. He once confided in her that 'Mr Meachum' always felt too much like his dad and too little like him. On her part, she's ranted about 'Patsy' long enough for him to know that she's done identifying with the cute one-trick-pony that was her entire childhood. They're not the people they were before. In a way, she supposes they both have superpowered friends to thank for that. A frown mars her face as she suddenly realises she can't see Karen anywhere. Goddamnit.

 

It's a testament to her friendship with Ward that she doesn't even have to explain anything to him as she tears herself away from him and stalks back inside in search of the blonde reporter. He follows in her wake before diverting himself to the other side of the room. It goes unsaid that he, too, is looking to catch a glimpse of the reporter he stubbornly keeps calling 'Miss Page' no matter how often she refers to her friend as Karen. Her heart almost stutters to a halt when she doesn't see telltale blue eyes, hair bright as sunlight, or the elegance with which the other woman seems to walk through life. Asks half a dozen people if they've seen Karen, but their reactions vary from "who?" to opinions that almost make her want to smash someone's head through a wall. Her breath huffs out in anger when one woman looks her up and down imperiously and then responds with "if they are your friend, I have not seen any such creature" with all the haughty disdain of the too-rich and too-important-for-your-bullshit. Makes sure to arrange her own walk-off in a way that winds up with the lady's face planted in a lady friend's bosom.

 

_You're fucking welcome,_ she thinks, feeling the rage and anxiety rise to the foreground now that she's combed through her part of the room with no sign of Karen. There's fire in her veins and a steady drum in her head. She stabilises herself with a hand against one of the pillars and a deep breath. Now is not the time to lose her cool. God, how she hates these fundraisers. She shakes her head and turns back around to see if Ward had more success with finding Karen. Groans softly when she realises she can't see him from where she's standing. She's not looking forward to dodging people and weaving through the crowd again. It's a miracle she didn't step on anyone's toes the first time. She grabs the first available glass of champagne that comes past and downs it in a single swoop. She cranes her neck to see if she spots Karen anywhere in the crush of people that surround her now.

 

It doesn't take long for Ward to find her instead.

 

"Someone saw Karen heading toward the ladies room, but couldn't tell me how long ago that was," he remarks casually when he comes to lean against the pillar as well. "Another person definitely saw her heading upstairs. Yet another saw her going toward the wardrobe area."

 

Trish eyes his half of the room critically, standing on the very tips of her toes to get a better view. "The ladies room is on this end and nobody's seen her on this side, so that seems unlikely," she comments. "Whereabouts were the other people who'd seen her?"

 

Ward gestures toward the left side of the room. "Over there was the guy who said he'd seen her heading upstairs. The guy who'd seen her heading toward the wardrobe area was further back, also to the left." He pauses, assessing the situation critically. "The one who said she went upstairs looked like he wouldn't be able to tell one pretty blonde from the other. He first thought I was talking about you."

 

"Wardrobe area it is then," she comments with a swift nod.

 

"Thank god." At her raised eyebrow, he adds: "Finding an excuse for snooping around upstairs would've been harder."

 

"That's what you think."

 

She doesn't offer an explanation for her counterargument, even when he frowns at her and asks her what she means. There are some things corporate professionals never think of, after all, and she's not going to dive headlong into that hornet's nest of confusing feelings. Nor is she going to admit that getting caught would most likely lead to her kissing him as though both their lives depended on it. Nor is she going to admit that her biggest worry would be that he wouldn't kiss her back. At least, she's not stupid enough to say _any_ of that out loud.

 

She trails after Ward as he navigates them through the crowd expertly. Marci would probably call that navigational ease the benefit of broad shoulders, but Trish isn't willing to contemplate his shoulders or the feeling of his back underneath the palm of her hand when she grabs a light hold of his jacket. _Shut up,_ she thinks furiously at herself. _Shut the hell up already._ Shakes her head as if to clear it from the cobwebs of longing that are clouding her senses.

 

Worry for Karen shrouds any of the feelings about Ward that she doesn't want to contemplate when they arrive in the wardrobe area to find it completely empty. It's darker here by far and she's pretty sure at least one employee should be here when they aren't, which is a knowledge that clamps down on the part of her brain that's convinced something bad happened. She quickly sweeps the room with her eyes. The counter's still got stray tickets and paperwork strewn out on top of it. The rows and rows of jackets and coats are eerily still, entirely void of movement that would suggest a live person hiding among them. The lighting in the room is dim, but there aren't many other places inside it for anyone to hide behind.

 

"She could've gone outside," she says, trying to stave off her worry by offering the only logical alternative. "Gotten some fresh air. I don't know."

 

"We'll find her. We'll just stay here for a bit to see if she makes a reappearance. If she doesn't, we'll go find her somewhere else."

 

"You don't have to stay. She's my friend." She bites her lip nervously. Chews down on it when he shoots her an incredulous look. "I mean," she hastens to explain, "you've got networking to do and people to actually have more interesting conversations with than this and you don't even know Karen that well so it'd make sense if you left."

 

"No, it wouldn't." There is a patience to his voice that's well-rehearsed and shrouds the edge of his own annoyance just enough. He sounds genuine in the next breath. "This is the most fun I've had since Davenport threw up all over Daisy Summers at one of these. Think it was that event that included the last time they did something for homeless people."

 

"You're kidding! I didn't know that."

 

"How did you miss that?"

 

She frowns. "I think it happened during Jess's trouble, I don't know. I flunked out on fundraisers a few times in the last year." They hadn't felt right. An exercise in fruitless manipulation that reminded a little too much of her mother and Kilgrave and all the dead bodies that follow in the wake of being a hero. A reminder that the city is still divided up into people who don't know shit about it and people who're not rich enough to make a difference. She refocuses back on Ward with a slight shudder. "I would say good for Davenport on account of Summers being a totally vapid little shit, but he's not a lot better so I wouldn't know who to root for."

 

"I rooted for Tracy Ferrars dumping her own drink all over Davenport and telling Summers that her state of distress made a really bland dress so much more interesting."

 

They talk about the usual fundraiser visitors with all the air of two people who've grown up in the world of rich people making strings of stupid decisions. Ward's observations are more cutting than her own, born of the fact that he never got to escape out of it for a duration of time. They stave off the growing unease over Karen's absence for a little while at least, even though her eyes dart to the door that leads outside more often than not and his gaze is fixated on the goings-on out in the fundraiser hall itself.

 

When she finally catches a flash of blonde hair at the door, she can't stop the brilliant smile that threatens to appear on her face. Sure enough, it's a rather haggard-looking reporter that slides through the door and stops dead in her tracks at seeing them waiting for her. Her voice sounds just a little on the wrong side of incredulous. "What are you doing?"

 

Trish scoffs at the question, but it's nothing in comparison to Ward's reaction. "Are you kidding? You didn't exactly leave a note, or tell anyone where you were going. With your _abysmal_ track record of getting into trouble, it's a goddamn miracle you're in one piece." He pauses. Looks Karen up and down. "Don't do that again."

 

"I had to. Sandberg's worth an article, not a bullet in the head."

 

"Did you convince _him_ of that?" Trish's voice is quiet now that she's put two and two together. She does not need to identify who she means. "Or is Sandberg still going to wind up dead on the doorsteps of this fine establishment?"

 

"Jury's still out."

 

Karen's answer is not what Trish wants to hear. _At all._ "You do realise you're an accessory to murder, right?" Ward sounds just as done with the situation as she feels. "How often does this happen, Page? Not often enough for the cops to notice that people wind up dead the second you question them, not yet. But enough for it to be a problem – don't give me that look, _of course_ it's a fucking problem – and enough for it to become an emerging pattern." He keeps his words matter-of-fact, but Trish can tell from the hiss in his tone that he's withholding his emotion. "Burroughs. Temperley. Sandberg. That's in, what, the past half year?"

 

"Eight months."

 

Trish interrupts, knowing full well how much further south this argument can go if it's allowed to continue. "I was worried about you. You should've let me know where you were going." She holds up her hand when Karen opens her mouth to reply. "I'm your friend. I tolerate the dogwalker on your behalf. Don't make me regret that decision. You need to go back out there and tell him I strongly recommend he holds off on Sandberg for tonight." Her voice could melt a glacier. "Tell him I'm not asking."

 

With that, she abruptly turns on her heel and stalks away.

 

*****

 

Marci loves the story of their disastrous night, of course, as both Trish and Karen expected she would. The lawyer's loud guffaw at Karen's apologetic tone throughout the retelling is worth the distress of the night itself. Trish would've told the whole story herself, but she's absolutely no good at doing impressions of people and Karen is eerily uncanny in mimicking Ward's affronted manner of speaking.

 

Instead, Trish smirks at her friends over the edge of the swirling glass of alcohol she's contemplating knocking back today. _Josie's_ different from what she's used to – louder, more cramped, completely off her usual style – but she can't help but love the way Marci and Karen get when they land themselves here on a Saturday evening. Marci's all loud voice and disapproval, warning people to steer clear of the olives in the establishment, while Karen's more quiet contemplation and perfect shots at the pool table.

 

"I've got to meet him," decides Marci out of the blue. Trish almost chokes on her drink at that. Envisions careful, controlled Ward meeting raucous law-and-order Marci and decides she probably needs a camera to help commemorate the occasion. "Anyone who can put the fear of god into Karen is worth meeting."

 

"He didn't put the fear of god into me," protests Karen half-heartedly. "He just very strongly advised me to not go traipsing off on my own again in an establishment where at least half the people present are on Frank's hitlist. Or to directly assist in making that hitlist smaller in a way that could be led back to me."

 

"Too goddamn right," remarks Trish.

 

"Half, really?"

 

Karen makes a face. "I was trying not to think about Frank in that room," she says with some trepidation. "Every time I do, I envision bodies hitting the floor. It's _not_ a constructive work environment." She looks over to Trish, who gazes back with as little condemnation in her eyes as she can muster. Their argument has been buried under apologies, but that doesn't automatically give way to Trish's approval. "Sandberg's safe for now, but his business partners might not be so lucky."

 

"Your boyfriend's ten different shades of fucked up," remarks Marci sourly. Waves off the protest that there's no such thing as Frank Castle ever being boyfriend material again. As far as Marci's concerned, Karen's continued connection to this particular infamous vigilante is exactly the kind of Romeo and Juliet bullshit her mother always warned her about. "I'm glad I stuck with my lawyer, you know that? Foggy's not half as complicated as your love lives." She rounds on Trish, suddenly. "Yes, hon, that includes yours. You can't wave that newspaper in front of me and then tell me there's absolutely nothing going on between y'all."

 

New York's finest tabloid newspaper had certainly gone all-out. Headlining with _SECRET ROMANCE?_ , overanalysing every scrap of the radio interview she'd conducted with Ward, and accompanying it with copious pictures that continued on page four and in the showbiz section.. it was something Karen had mockingly dubbed 'a piece of art' and something Marci had gleefully devoured in a single sitting while shouting out random observations that were helpful to absolutely nobody.

 

Trish's good mood had soured considerably when she saw the droves of reporters waiting for her at her workplace. She knew Ward wasn't faring a whole lot better, if his irate text about reporters and cars and the incessant need to hit the gas pedal as a reaction to every camera flash was anything to go by. They had unanimously stonewalled the reporters with "no comment", although they kept up a near-running commentary of events throughout the day. She'd quoted a particularly sugar-sweet part of the article back at him just to rile him up further. The answering snapshot of a rather dishevelled CEO giving her the finger was all that had kept her going.

 

Now, she groans out loud at Marci's comment. "Quit your bullshit theories already," she tells the grinning woman. "We really are just friends."

 

"Okay, 'just friends', wanna explain to me why his hand's almost on your ass in that one picture?"

 

This time, it's Karen who almost chokes on her drink and starts giggling loudly. Her laughter reverberates through the room even harder when Trish puts her head in her hands and lets out a soft scream. Marci reaches over to pat her arm in a gesture that's both comforting and fun-poking and Trish can't help but think that this is _exactly_ how life should be. The friendship she's formed with Karen is marked by their dogged hunt for the truth in every story, while the one with Marci is a haphazard collection of stories and a shared sense of humour that never backs down in the face of danger. These women are altogether new in her life, bright against Jessica's dark constant that beats the steady pace of family, and she loves them dearly for it. Gone are her mother's warnings that other women only ever want to ruin what you have earned. Gone are her mother's convictions that Patsy Walker only needs to befriend the people she can use to get ahead. Jess was a gift that became a shield from harm. Karen and Marci are choices that she feels blessed to have made.

 

She changes the subject to safer waters of Karen's krav maga training and Marci's determination to make it through at least one karate lesson in heels. It's transparent, see-through all the way, but she can't deal with her feelings for Ward Meachum this evening. The women seem to sense as much, too, because Karen talks her through a trick for a move Trish has never mastered fully and Marci's trying to convince Karen of the merits of wearing block heels. The younger blonde looks so affronted at the suggestion that Trish pitches in with a "what about wedges?" that has Marci roaring with laughter and Karen moaning that she needs a stronger drink if she's going to make it through Fashion Disasters 101 alive. Marci's eyebrow wiggle at the new suggestion of "combat boots?" has Trish cackling like a bad witch from a fairytale while Karen stumbles to Josie's bar claiming she desperately needs to do shots. When she returns with six glasses and lines them up perfectly, there's almost something wistful present in her gaze. Trish decides not to comment on it and settles for knocking back the first of the shots.

 

She's left coughing up a storm when the alcohol burns down her throat and creates a fire in the pit of her belly.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pure fluffy goodness as far as I'm concerned, with a few pop culture references thrown in for good measure, and I think perhaps this is what falling in love is like.. enjoy!

She gets home from work a couple of days later to find Ward camping out in front of her door. She raises an eyebrow at him once it's sunk in that he's not wearing a suit at all, but opted for jeans and a t-shirt instead. It's such a jarring appearance that she can't help but comment about it instantly. He smiles up at her when he explains it's his day off, so there's absolutely no need for a stifling suit in this kind of nice weather.

 

"If the weather's really that great, why are you waiting for me inside?"

 

"A reporter may or may not have tracked me here and your doorman took pity on me?" he counters. "They were practically pushing me up against the glass demanding an answer to one of their two million questions at one point." He rises to his feet and shakes his head at her when she wants to unlock the door. Upon seeing her puzzled frown at his headshake, he says: "Let's go somewhere."

 

"Where?"

 

"Anywhere but indoors. This is the first sunny day we've had in forever and I want to enjoy it. Preferably with good company."

 

A smile tugs at her lips. "Am I good company?"

 

"The best," he tells her gravely. Rises to his feet and fidgets nervously on the spot for a second. "What do you say?"

 

"I say that's the best idea you've had in recent memory. Going to need to put on some different shoes though. Hate walking around this city in heels – I got stuck on an air vent once and it took _three_ people to get my heel back out. It's something people expect of me while I'm working, though. Heels are synonymous with the measure of a woman's success, or so salespeople keep telling me." She keeps talking animatedly as she unlocks the door and walks inside. "Come in for a sec," she tells him. He follows her readily. She looks him up and down briefly before leading the way into the rest of the apartment. "I like your hair much more when it's not slicked back within an inch of its life. You should wear it like this more often." She smiles at him, sets her bag down, and kicks her heels off. "I would've gotten here earlier, but the boss stopped me on the way out. He keeps saying he wants you back on my show, you know? Think he wants to beat our competition with sheer listener numbers alone."

 

"I could fit that into my schedule," he concedes, electing to ignore her comment about his hair, "though it depends on what angle your boss is looking for. Maybe we could talk about the city in general and talk about the way business is going inside it? With Wilson Fisk behind bars and Midland Circle in some kind of trouble, people are sitting up and following our everyday dealings with interest for a change. I won't do a Rand Enterprises promotion tour the way Danny seems to be doing."

 

Danny had shown up on the news about two weeks ago steering one of Rand's trucks straight into a Midland Circle facility. Trish smiles as she remembers the way Ward's eye had twitched at the news. Then, there'd been the news that Midland Circle had been harbouring young orphans that had fallen through the cracks of the system. Danny said it'd been the work of The Hand. Ward had just about screamed down the phone at the co-owner of his company at that point.

 

"The stock market would probably thank you for calming everyone down, so generalised chats about business and the city might be a good idea. I'll check with the boss and let him decide, yeah? We could also take some callers in the show if you feel like it."

 

"As long as they're not of the 'are you single?'-variety, I'll probably be okay."

 

"Are you single?" she mocks gently as she finally digs her flat shoes out from under the couch. "Are you dating? Are you and Patsy Walker a thing? Are you seeing anyone else?"

 

"You're _so_ not a Patsy."

 

She pauses at that. Considers. "I suppose not, no. Not anymore." She finishes putting her shoes on. Shoots him a rather pointed look. "What happened to _your_ date at the fundraiser, by the way?"

 

"I'm looking at her?" he hedges with a laugh.

 

She rolls her eyes. Elects to ignore what he just claimed. "The one the invitation told you to bring."

 

"I told them I'd be bringing Danny. Danny didn't even know – he was out of town following the recent Midland Circle fiasco. I _hate_ finding dates for that sort of thing. People are never what you expect them to be."

 

"Sneaky," she compliments. Looks at him curiously a second later before they walk back out the door. "Was I what you expected me to be?"

 

"Hell no."

 

"Explain."

 

"My sister used to watch your show. Like, all the damn time. She knew the songs, the big scenes, the dialogue, _everything_. Annoyed the shit out of me. I think I contemplated the murder of Patsy Walker more than once."

 

"You and me both," she grouches while locking her door behind them. "Wish you would've."

 

"I was a kid," he snorts. "Besides, she moved on to her second horse phase eventually. Not having you on TV every day helped." He slings an arm around her shoulders casually as they make their way into the elevator. "Then, you walked back into fame with Trish Talk. My sister couldn't stand to listen to you – you were so different from that one-time hit wonder she'd loved."

 

"I've heard the same from other people. I guess it brings home to them that Patsy was just a role I played at the end of it, no matter how much my mom always wanted everyone to believe that was who I really was. We all play roles like that in our life, but with me it's a little more obvious." She pauses, suddenly curious. "But if you hated Patsy, you would probably have fewer problems with Trish Talk, right?"

 

"Right. Only ever seemed to catch snippets of your show here and there, never the full thing, but you sounded like you knew what you were talking about in all of them. My dad would've dismissed it as a total housewife show, too. Would've thought it weak for a man to listen to that."

 

"Your dad was batshit crazy," she laughs right when she leads him out the back door. There's a spring in her step when she snakes her own arm around his waist and tucks herself closer to him. "So, why wasn't I what you expected?"

 

"When I saw you in that bar, it didn't immediately click with me who you were. I recognised you enough to know you were connected to Danny and his circle of weirdos somehow, but it wasn't until you confirmed Jones that I knew for sure who I was talking to. I always thought you'd be above drinking alone in a dingy bar that could very well kill you from being so unsanitary. I guess the last thing I expected was for you to actually talk to me, buy me a drink, all of that. I didn't expect to become friends with you."

 

"That makes two of us."

 

"I'm glad you're not what I expected."

 

She thinks she's glad of that too, later on that day, when she discovers he's never had the best bagels in town and proceeds to cover him in powdered sugar in an attempt to get him to see reason about good food. They've commandeered a park bench between them that's mercifully clear of pigeons thanks to a couple of kids feeding the birds at a short distance away. It doesn't stop Ward from throwing the last of his bagel at a particularly thin pigeon and calling it his act of charity for that month. A shadow passes over his face briefly as he says it, though he quickly chases it away by remarking that he needs to get her to see reason about strawberry-rhubarb jelly donuts as though that's actually something people eat these days. She makes a face that's all wrinkled nose and lets out a "blergh" that has him laughing out loud.

 

In hindsight, she's not entirely sure whose glorious idea it is to rent rollerskates in the park. She thinks he was the first to comment on the possibility, but her excitement over the notion is so intense that it could very well have been her own harebrained shout of joy that propelled them to actually shell out money for it. The Ward Meachum who became head of the boardroom at age eighteen certainly wouldn't have gone for the idea, but she thinks he's attempting to chase away every shred of personal demons by doing everything he's usually not expected to do. The Trish Walker who commandeered the media's attention from childhood onward would certainly have been prevented from ever falling on her ass in public, which is all the incentive she really needs to put wheels under her feet and proceed to make an utter fool of herself.

 

The look of sheer determination on Ward's face is the only thing that's really keeping him upright at all. She doesn't feel a whole lot better about her own chances when she lets go of the railing around the rolling rink and takes her first wobbly strides in free space. She reaches for him in blind panic when it feels like she's going to topple over any second now.

 

His grip on her hand is more reassuring than it has any right to be. "Danny's parents took us here once," he comments suddenly, and steadies her on her feet. He's a bit more steady on his own feet now that he's found his footing, though he's still frowning in concentration and desperately trying not to make a fool of himself. "Danny was rolling around doing little tricks before long and teaching Joy to do the same. Danny's mom, she uh... she convinced me to let go of the railing after about half an hour." His eyes are far away, fixed on the centre of the rink as though he can see something she cannot. "It was the most fun I'd had in months, but I acted like an asshole about it. Told Joy it looked stupid. Almost knocked Danny over at one point. Acted like I was too good for this stuff. Too old for it, maybe, I don't know. His mom saw right through that, so she kept inviting me to this stuff like it was going to make a difference."

 

She finds it's easier to skate when she's not worried about where to put her foot next. "Reminds me of the time Jess and I went to play arcade games at the mall and I acted like an entitled brat all throughout the day. She'd just come to live with us and it was our first outing that was just us and my bodyguard. I didn't really know her at all, so I tried to act like I was in control of the situation. Like that dumb arcade was beneath my very notice and like Jess was the world's worst person for dragging me to it." She chuckles darkly at the memory. "Three lost games and a fight with two of those ice-hockey game paddles later, I realised it was the first time in forever I'd actually let go and been a kid about something. Jess kept dragging me to those things whenever mom got to be too much, after."

 

"Must've been fairly often," he remarks carefully.

 

"Yeah."

 

"I met your mother once. We were casting kids for this new Rand commercial. Fucking tedious process and they wanted me to oversee it for god-knows-what. It was the first commercial since my father's death, so everyone was on edge about it having to look good." He shakes his head. "Your mother was said to be one of the best in that business."

 

"She is, unfortunately."

 

"She made me so mad I could barely look at her." His admission surprises her, startles her, and she lets out a disbelieving laugh when she realises he's serious. Starts wobbling about half a second later because she's laughing too hard to keep her balance up. His mouth curves into a soft half-smile when he steadies her on her feet again. "I caught her giving one of the kids what she said was a 'talking-to'. Threatened to void the contract with her then and there, legal consequences be fucking damned. I felt sick when she said that my dad had never made an issue of it."

 

"Oh god, I know my mother's version of talking-to too well." She groans out loud and folds her fingers around his hand tightly. "Can still recite some of it by heart and it's been years since I was subjected to anything but the cliffnotes version of it. Poor kid. What happened next?"

 

"Kept the contract, never worked with her again. Always took our business to the competition. One of my rare ways of saying 'fuck you' to dad, I guess." He pauses and a slight blush mars his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to dump my family sob stories on you. That never ends well."

 

"I don't mind," she says, and means it, "but I think if we're gonna talk about my mother again I'm going to need a drink or two first." She brightens suddenly, registering where they are for the first time. "Did we just skate a full circle without falling on our asses?"

 

His answering nod of affirmation has her squealing with joy. Only belatedly does she realise that victory dances done on wheels are very, _very_ different from victory dances done on the safety of one's own feet. Her balance shifts until even Ward's hand isn't enough to steady her. His look of utter alarm before she topples over and takes him with her has her laughing until tears are streaming out of her eyes. She's sure they look like quite the pair, strewn out across the rink in a haphazard tangle of limbs and rollerskates as they are. It takes a good few seconds before she brushes all her hair back out of her face and is greeted by his own laughter as he tries to extract himself from her and fails miserably at the attempt. He seems to give up seconds later, content to just sit on the floor rather than try to get back up on his feet.

 

“Life's going well for us today, huh?” she laughs, surprised to find that she doesn't even mean it so sarcastically. Her legs are strewn over his amicably. “Wanna go another round?”

 

“You will kill me one day,” he groans, but his eyes are smiling and his hand is warm when he tucks a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear. “As long as I get to pick tonight's food, I'm all for it.”

 

“Please let it be pancakes.”

 

He shoots her a long-suffering look. “Please let it _not_ be pancakes,” he remarks, probably remembering the time she tried to make them for dinner at his place and wound up sticking half the dough on the ceiling. “How does pizza sound?”

 

“Like it should be in my mouth,” she grins unapologetically. Disentangles herself from him and tries to rise to her feet. It's a feat that takes her far, far longer than it should have. She looks down at him. “Now, get up, on your feet, I want to do another round of this.”

 

“Kill me now.”

 

“Nope. Get up.”

 

“Murder me.”

 

“Get the fuck up.”

 

“I am going to die in this park.”

 

“I will bury you with the geese.”

 

“Low, low,” he grimaces, finally making some attempt to get back up and face the music. The threat of geese always works on him. (She's too afraid to ask what they ever did to him, but suffice to say that Ward goes out of his way to avoid them and yelled out a very panicked “help, I'm surrounded!” the last time they were here and passed by a gaggle of them.) Even so, he cannot stop complaining. “This is going to take more than one dinner to make up for how badly my ass is going to hurt in the morning.”

 

“How you know you're alive, part one: your ass hurts.” She smiles down at him. Raises an eyebrow imperiously. “This was your idea.”

 

“Don't remind me.”

 

“This was _your_ idea. Me, I'm just following directions.”

 

“Shut it.”

 

“Get up and make me shut it.” She skates away precariously, praying she won't fall flat on her face and face indignity. Grins triumphantly when she stays balanced. “Come on, scaredy cat!”

 

“That's it!”

 

Ward scrambles to his feet with all the indignance he can muster. Looks vaguely alarmed when one of his legs begins to skate in a different direction than the other for a moment. Starts toward her, flailing limbs and all, in an attempt to topple her to the floor all over again.

 

“You okay there?” she laughs, watching him stumble around as gracefully as a drunk penguin on ice. “Need a hand?”

 

Her laughter devolves into rather high-pitched shrieking when he finally catches up with her.

 

*****

 

Apparently, mock-battles on rollerskates are newsworthy these days.

 

“Don't these people have anything better to do?” asks Trish of Karen the next morning, warily eyeing the candid photographs that accompany the article. “I swear, they just lie in wait in the bushes lately until one of us slips up or something.”

 

“Is there?” asks the reporter vaguely, perusing some of the documents Trish gave her. At Trish's blank look, she sighs. “Is there a chance of a slip-up?”

 

Trish rocks back in the most uncomfortable chair known to mankind and tosses the tabloid newspaper onto Karen's desk. “Nope,” she says, popping the 'p'-sound loudly, “and _this_ is grating on me. On both of us, really.”

 

Ward had been the first to spot it on his way to work that morning. She'd woken to a text saying 'next time, we need a disguise' that her bleary-eyed self had initially taken as permission to dress up as a superhero. She'd been rather disappointed to find out the real reason for the text. (Ward had sent back a picture of his confused face after her excitedly garbled 'superhero costumes yes please'-text, which she fully plans to use against him at some point in their friendship.)

 

“You're both successful and beautiful people,” replies Karen, setting the papers back down on the desk, “and people love to see a budding romance. It's not that hard to fathom why this city's taken an interest in you.” The woman has the audacity to smile about it. Changes the subject abruptly in her typical business-like style. “I'll get these docs to Frank's source, make sure he knows they're yours, can't promise you anything more than that.”

 

“It's not a budding romance,” Trish still gripes, unperturbed by the subject change. Doesn't know how often she needs to repeat it before the people around her begin to believe it. “Anything Frank's source can uncover would be helpful, really, because we're flying mostly blind here. I'd really rather not ask my mother for help..”

 

“Nor should you.” Karen's voice turns sharp at that. “This thing is not big enough for you to risk prolonged contact with that asinine piece of work just yet. It'd be a different story if it was life-or-death right now, but even _then_ I would encourage you to exhaust all other available options first.” The reporter manages to shoot Trish a reassuring smile. “Frank's source will come through. He knows his way around information like this. Now, what was that about the expensive housing project in Harlem that you think is being funded with gunrunner money?”

 

Trish leaves Karen's office a great deal lighter than when she entered it. Karen is always working on three different things at once, to Ellison's continued horror, and has the habit of pooling scraps of seemingly irrelevant information together until it all starts to make sense. Trish knows there's no better place for the IGH documents than Karen's capable hands. They had come to the agreement that Trish would be the one to break the story about the gunrunners taking away some of Harlem's affordable housing units, as it falls more in line with the sort of human interest stories Trish became famous for than anything else.

 

Meeting with Karen always makes Trish feel like she can tackle the entire world running, as though there are suddenly more than twenty-four hours in a day and she can breathe more fully because of it. Not even the presence of at least four photographers can put a dampener on her excellent mood, although she could do without the one reporter shoving a recorder into her face.

 

“Are you dating the CEO of Rand Enterprises?”

 

“No comment.”

 

“Was your time spent in the park together your first real date?”

 

“Again, no comment.”

 

“Will you be making an appearance at Rand's annual benefit concert?”

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” grounds Trish out, finally having reached her car, “what part of 'no comment' didn't you understand the first time?” She shoots the woman a rather exasperated look. “My personal life is not up for public consumption. Have a nice day.”

 

“But–”

 

Trish gives the camera a falsely cheery wave before getting into her car and shutting the door.

 

*****

 

“One fundraiser has barely left the building and they're already hooking us up on the next one,” she gripes at Ward later that night, shovelling more food onto his plate despite his protests. “I want to start charging them for stupid questions. Five dollars per question. We'll raise more between us in the space of a few days than your annual benefit concert does.”

 

“Make it ten dollars per question. Someone asked me today if you were planning on becoming a stay-at-home mom.”

 

Trish pauses mid-bite. Blinks. “They asked _what_ , now?” she chokes out, swallowing her good-sized bite of the grilled vegetable kebab rather abruptly. “What did you say?”

 

He shrugs. “Danny was standing right next to me at the time and he started laughing so hard in response that I think that was enough of an answer to go on. We all know you're not the type for that.” That much is true, at least, though Trish thinks having a studio at home might be a more preferable option should she ever have children. She doesn't bring that thought up out loud now. Ward leans back against the pillows and tries to shovel some of the food back into the container next to him. “Don't you think it's a little odd how everyone just assumes we're dating?”

 

“Says the man whose minimalist furniture is so uncomfortable that we wound up eating take-out on his bed instead.” Trish grins at him unapologetically. Circumvents his question rather expertly. “You're lucky I didn't pick any horror movies to watch this time. You might never get back to sleep in this bed.”

 

“You know I _hate_ those.”

 

“ _The Omen_ is a work of art that I _will_ subject you to one day,” she predicts ominously. Steals one of the steamed veggies off his plate and pops it into her mouth. “I can't believe this was the first time you watched _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_..”

 

“Dad hated sci-fi of any kind. So did Joy. _I_ hate watching movies alone. So.. here we are.”

 

“Please tell me you've seen _Star Wars_ ,” she comments, eyes going wide at the implication of what he just said. “If you haven't, I'm going to die right here right now.”

 

He smirks at her.

 

“Ward..”

 

“What?”

 

“Tell me!”

 

“Bits and pieces.”

 

“No! Noooo.” She gestures at him with the kebab. “You and me, mister, we have to get those movies and go to town with them next weekend. Top priority.”

 

“The benefit concert is next Saturday.”

 

“Cancel it. Tell them you need to be educated on pop culture first. Tell them I used my mom voice on you.”

 

He chuckles at her. “Careful, Walker, you don't want to start a riot now.” Takes the proffered half of the kebab out of her hands. “We have to keep up appearances.”

 

“We? _WE?!_ ”

 

“Yes, which means you're going to steer clear of that concert and I'm going to suffer through three hours of bad singing.”

 

“Oh thank god.” She leans back against the pillows with a grateful smile. “For a moment, I thought you were going to say we should attend together.”

 

“Preferable in a universe in which neither one of us is famous. As it stands..”

 

Their fame hangs in the air between them. She laughs it off nervously, hiding her uncertainty behind more food and a complaint about high-heeled shoes that has him snorting out appreciative laughter. She's not sure when they evolved into seeing so much of each other that this scene already feels familiar to her. Her days with Ward are a steady stream of bickering interspersed with deep conversation, and somehow always subject to copious amounts of food.

 

Her mother would disapprove wholeheartedly of the nature of this relationship, or so Trish thinks when Ward pushes more food onto her plate and begins to argue with her about Rand's latest research projects as if Trish is smart enough to understand even the most technical details of it. Ward never talks down to her the way most CEOs in this city are prone to do. If anything, his conversations always seek out her opinion and keep pushing until she gives it. She's never known anyone to be as interested in her mind as he.

 

She thinks Ward's father would perhaps have been equally disapproving of the relationship when she finally says something that makes Ward laugh until he's almost crying. From what she knows of Harold Meachum, the man praised self-control and impersonal relationships far more than he ever did the loose warmth that Trish infuses into her friendship with Ward.

 

On some level, she's aware she's probably single-handedly dragging Ward away from an abyss she doesn't understand and understands all too well at once. On another, she thinks he might be doing the same for her.

 

This is someone she wants to keep.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my happy zone and you're about to find out why. ;)

True to Ward's word, he'd reminded her of her boss's plans to put him back on her show and offered to arrange a meeting for just that purpose. She thinks it's entirely see-through, born of the need to spend more time together but not be assaulted by the media every time they do, but nobody around them seems to care about that. There's something in this friendship that gets shit done from people, as evidenced by how quickly her boss had succumbed to their ideas in the one meeting they'd had with him.

 

A monthly plan had quickly devolved into a bi-weekly affair on Friday afternoons, talking about all and sundry one hour and taking guest callers the next. Her team had become experts at filtering out the questions that were really better suited for the Defenders, though she had gotten such a kick out of one caller's conspiracy theory that Danny and Ward are one and the same person that she absolutely could not resist putting that particular person on-air with them. Ward's reaction had been one of incredulous disbelief that was fast on its way to becoming a new internet meme now that she'd actually caved to getting her webcam system fixed. Her boss had been over the moon at her expanded internet presence, though she'd carefully dissuaded him from setting up a blogging platform she would never use.

 

She'd shoved the blogging platform idea at Karen at the earliest opportunity she got. It'd taken Marci's force of nature to really get the reporter to consider it, but Trish wasn't above using a dirty tactic now and again and had prodded at Karen's boss with the idea until he took the bait. There was something to be said for knowing every serious journalist in town, or so she thought, and Karen really needed the space of a blog in which she could expand upon the sources for her many articles. Ward had joked she should come work for Rand Enterprises as a deal-closer, especially after Karen hadn't even sounded that upset over the phone and had geared up into becoming one of the more prolific journalists online in no time. He'd laughed when she said "no, I'll be a secretary and learn all the gossip you're trying to hide from me" in a tone that had sounded decidedly too chipper to be fully serious.

 

Their newfound partnership had also gotten all but the most persistent tabloid reporters to leave them alone. There was a reason for them to be seen out and about together now, even when the frequency of their outings was somewhat unusual for a business venture. Neither one of them could afford to be outright belligerent toward the reporters that did persist, although she had found herself wishing she could cram a particularly stealthy camera down a particular man's throat after she'd discovered it lodged in the nearby bushes at one of their usual restaurants. Ward had kept his calm outwardly, but the threat of suing the man's entire company until the dictionary entry for 'bankrupt' would simply feature his company's logo had stood firm.

 

A snap of fingers in front of her face startles her back to the present abruptly.

 

"Jeez, where the hell were you? I've been asking you something for about four times now!"

 

"Sorry, just pondering stuff," she says, looking up at a rather annoyed Ward. "My brain's mush from today's callers. Too many serious subjects in one show." She shakes her head and yawns profusely. Watches the annoyance slip off his face and be replaced with a look she can't quite identify. "I feel like I could sleep for a week."

 

"You're doing too much at once. Between the shows, the new editorials, and helping Jessica.."

 

She shrugs at him. "Used to work more than this. The shows are things I could do in my sleep. The editorials are actually fun for once. Which reminds me, you really do need to clear up space in your schedule next Wednesday. They want to do a few promoshots of you and me." She laughs as he fidgets slightly. "I'm sure it's going to feed the rumour mill about our secret romance again."

 

"Ah, our very exciting dalliance that inspires many a New Yorker. Food, alcohol, and entirely too many discussions about the merits of Russian literature.."

 

".. followed by your complaints about Danny's donkey cart stories, my shoes getting completely lost in that mess you call a hallway wardrobe, and fights over who gets to decide the movie this time. Which reminds me, it's my turn tonight."

 

"I hold the full right to veto _The Notebook_."

 

"You're really not even _trying_ to have a secret romance with me," she pouts.

 

"This, coming from the woman who can kick my ass and wouldn't know the meaning of candlelit dinners held in the confines of one's own personal space? I'm absolutely _shocked_." His dry tone is slightly mocking now, though he doesn't quite meet her eyes. He changes the subject rather abruptly. "As I've been asking, and I'm going to do it for the fifth time now, do you want Chinese or Thai for takeout tonight?"

 

"Thai." She hums contently at the decision. "Make sure you get those little.."

 

"Dumplings, yes, I know."

 

" _Did I ever tell you you're my heeeerooo?_ "

 

"Oh please, for the love of god, stop singing."

 

" _You're everything, everything I wish I could --_ " Her delighted laughter is muffled by the hand he's clapped in front of her mouth abruptly with a long-suffering sigh. She lets out a rather unladylike snort of amusement at the stream of complaints about tearjerker songs he lodges in her ears before he lets her go. "One of these days, I'm going to record this as your ringtone and call you when you're in the middle of a meeting. I'll tell Danny to take pictures."

 

"You wouldn't!"

 

"Hah! Totally would."

 

They bicker and squabble back and forth until their food arrives and they're parked on her couch with _Taxi Driver_ running as background noise. They've both seen the movie enough times to shout out random snippets of dialogue the further along the evening gets, even when Ward really cannot do a proper Jodie Foster impression to save his life and she can't make her voice sound gruff at all. Her feet are lodged in his lap so firmly that she actually groans out loud when his phone starts blaring, knowing their evening is likely to be cut short abruptly over some sort of work emergency. Ward blinks owlishly at the noise, engrossed in his rant about the inconvenience of New York taxis as he is. She scrambles to reach the phone somewhere in the middle of the dinner leftovers on the table beside her.

 

"Ward Meachum's phone," she answers politely the second she's got her hands on the damn device. The other end of the line is a gargle of noise and random snippets of a discussion she's not sure should even involve her. Thinks she can make out some of the voices, but isn't entirely sure about who's calling. She tries to listen for a while before giving up and cutting in. "Whoa, whoa, slow down, what's going on?"

 

"Trish?" That's Jess's voice in the background all right, sounding decidedly unsteady and surprised. She closes her eyes and counts to ten. Hears a punch and an "ow!" at the other end of the line. "What the hell, Danny?"

 

"I didn't know he'd be there with her, okay?" huffs out Danny's young voice on the other end of the line. "Hi, Trish, sorry to cut in, is Ward there?"

 

Ward almost rolls his eyes into the back of his skull while mouthing "oh my god" at her once he realises it's Danny on the other end of the line. She hides her own smile to the best of her ability. "Hi Danny, Jess," she greets. "Depends on what you need him for, Danny, he's not really in the best position to drive right now if that's what you need." That much is true, at least, because she loves a good beer with Thai food and has successfully wheedled him into trying some too. "Do you want me to put him on the phone?"

 

"Yeah, sure, thanks," says Danny, at the exact time on which Ward grounds out a heartfelt "oh hell no". She waves the phone in the latter's face until he takes it with a long-suffering sigh and clips out a "what now, donkey cart?" that has her sniggering with laughter. Ward's end of the conversation is a stream of "huh", "uhhuh", "no", "absolutely not", and "don't be an idiot" until he grounds out a "put Page on the phone already and don't take Murdock's advice on _anything_ " that has her sitting upright and sweeping her feet off his lap abruptly in a bid to get closer to the phone itself. Mouths a firm "speakerphone now" at him when her best attempt at getting closer almost ends with her losing her balance and narrowly avoiding her face getting planted in his lap. He begrudgingly obliges.

 

"–so apparently the whole warehouse is decked out like this, you know, and I took pictures that are really not corporate espionage because I would rather die than work for your skinny ass," comes the steady stream of Karen's commentary, "and then I may or may not have almost gotten my hand chopped off by a very irate man in a suit. Who's currently having breathing difficulties thanks to Jess's timely intervention." A brief pause and a slight scuffle on the other end of the line make Trish frown before Karen's voice returns loud and clear. "Yes, Matt, he's still alive. For now. Don't give me that look, I'm done with your guilt-trip parade, thanks. Jesus _Christ_ , you'd think by now you'd have gotten used to the fact that you're the only one in this entire conversation who thinks killing bad guys is wrong."

 

"Page, Page, stop squabbling," warns Ward, "because I'm actually not in the mood to listen to Danny's level of bullshit again right now. Talk to me before I hang up."

 

"Right, sorry," comes the breathy response on the other end of the line. "Anyway, I found a whole bunch of documents regarding even more suspicious activity from Midland Circle when it comes to superhumans and I need you to take a look at the corporate jargon that doesn't mean shit to the rest of us. I know it's really bad to do that because they're your competition and all but they've got something to do with all of us and.."

 

"Send them to me," says Trish suddenly, perking up at the news. "With the information Marci gave me, I think we finally have enough to prove that Midland Circle directly funded Simpson's whole program _and_ paid for the full expenses of the combat enhancers," she sidelines for the benefit of her sister. "Them dabbling in superhumans more is not surprising in light of that. If you send them to me, Ward's not going to be implicated in any kind of bullshit about corporate espionage directly. At least, I'm guessing that was what your main argument was going to be about."

 

"Trish, I love you," sings Karen jubilantly. "Stay up for the night, okay? I'm getting them to you."

 

The phone goes dead abruptly. Trish shakes her head. Drops her head into her hands briefly and lets out a minor scream at having to stay up late when she's got a full day going on tomorrow. Contemplates canceling her ten o'clock at the hairdresser's in earnest. Ward, on his part, has gone perfectly still next to her. He's still staring at the phone in his hand as though it carries some kind of transmissible disease.

 

"Are you okay?" she asks him, unsure of what else to offer him.

 

"Every time I think my life can't get any weirder, it does."

 

"Same. Never gets easier. You just stretch the limits of what you can tolerate and handle. Hope some good sticks inside of you at the end of the day. You need to find what you can live with."

 

"What if I've already had things I can't live with?"

 

"You're still here," she points out archly. Scoots over on the couch again until she's snuggled up against his side. "You've got me as your sanity check. You're gonna be just fine."

 

*****

 

'Just fine' is too broad a term for what they turn out to be for each other at the end of it. They've been dancing around each other for weeks now. There have been entirely too many casual touches between them for the touches to even be considered casual anymore. She's fallen asleep against him twice. He's taken to holding her hand casually or tucking her hair behind her ears on some of her more haphazard days. She knows they're in trouble when the internet comments on the livestream of their shared radio show vary along the lines of "o-m-g they are _totes_ dating" (or cruder variants thereof, which make her blush and him sputter). They're skirting around the issue with all the professional élan of two people who are used to rationalising their feelings into carefully crafted masks and hidden motives.

 

It means their first kiss is still an accident.

 

She intends to thank him for the fun night out when he brings her home and lingers for a chat in the hallway of her apartment. He'd taken her to one of the newly opened restaurants that she'd been intending to check out for days now. The restaurant itself was a letdown of chilly food and rude waiters, but she'd just about died laughing when Ward had begun to imitate the manager's put-on posh accent midway through. They'd gone out for ice cream the second they'd rolled out of the restaurant, convinced that maybe even fast food would've been a better bet than this. She smiles up at him when he promises her a do-over next week. Reaches up to kiss his cheek by means of saying goodbye for the night. He turns his head toward her suddenly, mid-speech, wholly oblivious to her actual intent.

 

Their lips meet.

 

It's a gentle crash she all but collapses into. A tingle shoots up her spine at the first touch of his lips on hers, at feeling a mumbled word die off them in surprise underneath her own. She almost withdraws from him again, unsure as she is of what he wants, before he presses into her gently but insistently. He tangles his fingers into her hair and pulls her closer toward him all at once. He kisses like a drowning man gifted with sudden oxygen. Urgent, deep, _wanting_. She feels his warmth fold around her slowly until he's all that exists in her current reality. She curls her own fingers into the hairs at the base of his neck, needing to be closer to him, not wanting this to end. A smile is threatening to break out on her lips. She feels him react to the small curve of them by kissing the corners of her mouth reverently. She smiles in earnest now, leaning into his touch.

 

When he withdraws from her, his eyes are dark with longing. Questioning. Uncertain.

 

"That's new," she says with a shaky laugh. His hands are still in her hair, resting on her back and neck in reassurance. She doesn't want this to end. Doesn't want him to go, now. Her smile turns a little bit wicked as she looks at him. Teases gently. "New but nice."

 

"Just nice?"

 

"Mindblowingly nice," she affirms, and he laughs so incredulously at her words that she wants to grab him and kiss him all over again. Weighs her options and finally issues an invitation: "We need to do more of that."

 

Their second kiss is anything _but_ an accident. He presses his lips against her own so softly that she feels butterflies erupt in the pit of her belly. She's a little more insistent than he, a little pushier, and he makes a soft noise of approval when she tugs slightly at his bottom lip. Strong arms sneak around her when he increases the pressure on her lips enough to leave her gasping for breath in the next seconds. She senses more than sees his smile before his tongue gently runs over her lips in a teasing motion that has her digging her nails into his shoulder. She's not that gentle with him in turn, teasing and tugging at him with tongue and teeth until he's right where she wants him and her back's against the door to prevent him from going anywhere. The low chuckle he breathes onto her neck in response to her need to dominate the exchange is almost her undoing.

 

"Slow and easy," he murmurs into her ear. "We've got time."

 

She hums quiet agreement to that. Wants to drag this feeling out over the space of days, weeks, months, _years_ if he'll let her. Doesn't want him to stop holding her. Whispers as much in the quiet space that forms between them now that his forehead is resting against her own and his breath is hot on her mouth. "Stay here with me," she tells him. Strokes his cheek languidly with one of her fingers. "Let's take it slow. Share some kisses. Nothing more."

 

"Think you can manage that?"

 

"Stay and find out?"

 

He acquiesces to her tempting question with the air of a man who's never been asked to stay before. His hand trembles on her waist when he presses a soft kiss to her forehead. He is reverent toward her, this man to whom being wanted is a foreign feeling, and she curls her fingers around his own in reply. This is new territory for her, too, much as she hates to admit it to herself. She thinks this may be the first time she wants to take things slow, to learn the reactions of the man in front of her until she can read him like an open book, to not cave to another early morning regret or to a partner she knows is trouble. A niggling voice in the back of her head tells her that maybe he's too important this time.

 

She knows this to be true when her hand folds around his shirt and all he does is pull her closer toward him without expecting anything from her. Her head's against his chest and his heart is beating a steady pace underneath her as he whispers soft words of affection into her hair. She sighs so contently that his hold tightens on her for a moment in what she recognises as disbelief.

 

She thinks she may just be a little bit in love with him.

 

*****

 

"Of course you are," says Karen the following evening. "We already knew you are, right, Marci?"

 

"Absolutely."

 

"See? Girlfriends are always right." The blonde reporter sounds just a little bit smug. Leans across the table and plants a big kiss on Trish's forehead. "I'm happy for you. You deserve this."

 

"I have a question." Marci's tone is deceptively calm. Trish raises an eyebrow at her. Gestures a 'do your worst' that the lawyer happily takes. "Does he know?"

 

"Know what?" Trish is trying very hard to keep her content, languid smile under wraps. Fails miserably at that effort. There's a giddiness inside of her that is butterflies and sleep deprivation all in one. "I didn't get a whole lot of sleep, girl, so be specific please."

 

"Lack of sleep isn't taking it slow," says Karen slowly, just as Marci pointedly asks "does he know you're totally head over heels for him?".

 

"I didn't tell him outright. Think it was fairly obvious, to be honest with you. I've never, ever, _ever_ kissed anyone like that." Drawn-out, sloppy, push-and-pull kisses that leave them breathless and terrified at the same time. Soft kisses like whispers, breaths ghosting over skin, featherlight fingertips roaming freely, and she's always about ten seconds away from pulling him under with her when he tries to pace her. She still thinks it's some kind of delirium to wake in the arms of someone and feel _safe_. "And, no, we actually spent most of the night talking and just, I don't know, staring at each other? He's the first person I can actually be quiet with. It never feels weird."

 

Marci's eyebrows are almost disappearing into her hairline at that point. "You had Mr Hot Stuff in your bed and _didn't_ jump his bones? I'm sorry, do I even know you?"

 

"You love him," says Karen quietly. There's a knowing look in her blue eyes when she turns her attention from Marci to Trish. "This isn't simply you being in love like some kind of, you know, lovesick teenager having their first crush. You've been there and done that with other people. He's nothing like that. What you've got is genuine no-holds-barred love that doesn't see reason and would do anything just to be by that person's side and know they're all right." Her smile turns wistful, then, and Trish can tell the reporter isn't even in the same room as them anymore. "Someone once told me to hold onto that with two hands and never let go. Now, I'm telling you the same. Tell him how you feel."

 

"I don't want to drive him away. We said we'd take it slow," groans Trish.

 

"If he's _willing_ to take it slow, he's a goddamn keeper." Marci's voice brooks no argument. "He probably feels exactly the same way and is too chickenshit to come out and say it. Karen's advice is good stuff. But lemme give you some Foggy-and-Marci advice, too: sometimes, you don't have to say it right off. Sometimes, you can wait until they're hogging your sock drawer and start snoring at 2 in the morning and the entire house smells like them even after they've gone." She pats Trish's hand affectionately. "You're happy now. Just wait until he ruins your best kitchen utensils thinking he can make a gingerbread house for Christmas. You'll want to murder him and still think he's a beautiful idiot at the same time."

 

"Oh my god, did Foggy actually do that? I thought he was kidding!"

 

"He burned the sugar, broke the gingerbread, exploded the icing, you name it." Marci waves it off as Karen starts laughing. "I'm telling you, I had to get takeout as Christmas dinner because he had managed to ruin my _entire_ kitchen somehow. He's got many virtues, but baking isn't one of them."

 

The rest of the evening flies by in conversation about any and all topics under the sun. Jess stops by very briefly to knock back two shots and hand Karen a folder full of pictures. Trish decides she doesn't want to know what that's about, but squeezes Jess affectionately for dropping by at all. Jess, ever astute, comments with some measure of eyebrow-wagging that there is either alcohol or a lover involved in that level of affection. So Marci, ever the expert at retelling romance, takes it upon herself to give a blow-by-blow account of a rather disastrous restaurant visit that ended with a kiss.

 

"Oh god no. Really?!" Jess's gasp of surprise makes Trish laugh. "About damn time. Meachum finally made a move, huh?”

 

"Technically, I think it was me? I moved in to kiss him on the cheek, I just didn't know he'd turn his head until, well..” Trish feels strangely flustered as she confesses to that. She can't meet Jess's too-knowing, too-amused gaze. “He made the second move, though.”

 

"I owe Danny money now. Five bucks _and_ a frappuccino, can you believe it?" Jess's tone sounds lamenting but not rejecting where the information is concerned. "He mentioned he thought there was something to those newspaper articles about you guys. Like obviously it was exaggerated, but he thought Meachum secretly didn't mind it at all. Then, the other night, you answered Meachum's phone and he already wanted me to pay up." Her dark-haired friend pauses briefly. Bites her lip. "For a monk, he's awfully greedy."

 

"You could've asked outright and saved yourself the indignity of having to order Starbucks."

 

Jess looks her up and down for a second. Huffs out a smiling "I'm a big girl" before kissing Trish's cheek. It's all the approval she needs from the woman she sees as her sister. “I knew it was trouble when I called you the other night and it was all 'Ward this, Ward that, Ward blablabla' – you guys know what I mean, right?”

 

“Do we ever!” cries Marci raucously, laughing as Jessica makes a face. “She hasn't shut up about him since the day she met him.”

 

“That's not true.”

 

“Uh, yeah, it is,” confirm her friends, high-fiving each other as they do.

 

Jess ruffles Trish's hair briefly. “I think I can share the top spot of the most-talked-about person in your life,” remarks the dark-haired Defender. “I'm still going to research his sorry ass, though.”

 

“No, you're not! Jessica!”

 

Her sister waves a mock-salute in farewell even as Trish lunges for her and almost winds up toppling face-first onto the floor for her troubles. It's a movement they've perfected over the years, sister-to-sister, though they haven't had cause to use it since the one time Trish's mom caught them at it and.. well... Trish shakes her head now, unwilling to recall the hurt her mother had inflicted on her for doing something silly in public. Waves her own goodbye at Jessica as the dark-haired hero struts out into the night.

 

“I hate to cut this short,” Karen starts, looking down at her phone as if it's a lifeline, “but I need to get Jess's information to the dogwalker.” The folder Jessica gave her is tucked firmly under the blonde's arm as she rises from her chair. “I'll call in about an hour or something.”

 

“Don't cut things short on our account, go get him!” roars Marci, all sense of decorum fading into the background in favour of annoying Karen. She's always successful at it, and this time is no different: Karen shoots the blonde a rather harried look while Marci remains unperturbed. The blonde lawyer remains unrepentant. “What? Someone's gotta say it..”

 

Karen shakes her head. “You need to get home to Foggy,” remarks the reporter just as she's about to leave. “The longer you go without sex, the worse it is for the rest of us.”

 

“Hear hear,” grins Trish. Directs her attention back to Karen's retreating form. “Kar, I'll call you later okay? I have some research stuff I want to run by you.”

 

“All right!” The reporter waves a cheerfully breezy farewell. “Bye girls!”

 

Trish looks at Marci. Sighs. That yearning look in the woman's eyes can only mean one thing. “Go home,” she tells her friend. “Go be with Foggy.”

 

“No!”

 

“Marci. Please.”

 

There's some protest, of course, but Trish doesn't bend and break under argument that easily. It doesn't take long before Marci is packing her bag and coat. Trish has half a mind to call Foggy and warn him about the slightly inebriated hug-filled state the woman's in, but decides perhaps surprises are the couple's bread and butter.

 

“You would've made a decent lawyer,” is Marci's parting shot for the night, accentuated by a one-armed hug and big kiss on Trish's cheek. “You can argue and manipulate people into _anything_.”

 

That's certainly not far from the truth. Trish has a natural sway with people that comes in handy during arguments. Has perfected it after years under her mother's tutelage, though she attempts to be a great deal sweeter about it than Dorothy Walker ever taught her to be. Becoming a lawyer would've exploited that particular talent, even though Trish doubts she's smart enough to make it through law school in one piece.

 

She sighs. Shoves the last of her drink to the side now that thoughts of her mother fill her brain. She doesn't want to be anything like that woman. Doesn't want to exploit any talent that Dorothy Walker pushed upon her. She thinks she's better off actually helping people. Defending them. She wants it more than she wants most things in life.

 

Trish wants to matter.

 

In this world, in this universe, in the quiet sphere that surrounds her, she wants to _matter_.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are.. at the turning point.

Whoever came up with the phrase "be careful what you wish for" had probably reserved it for moments like this.

 

She groans as she comes to. Her body feels as though it's been doused with gasoline and set on fire. She feels raw, unfinished, torn apart and sewn back together over and over in perpetual motion. There is a pressure building in her skull that makes the ceiling shift and tumble to the floor as she opens her eyes. She blinks against the too-harsh lights that seem a little too clinical for home. Registers moments later that there is a needle in her arm, a beeping noise to her left, and a scratchy sheet thrown on top of her legs to help keep her warm.

 

She's not sure how she landed in a hospital. Strains to recall more than just flashes of her life. Jess squeezing her arm and high-fiving Marci simultaneously. Marci blowing kisses through one of Josie's windows. Karen almost falling off her chair in a misguided attempt to flirt cherries off the guys seated two tables away from her. Ward pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as she wedges her cold feet between his warm legs. Danny Rand attempting to hug Jeri Hogarth. Claire Temple stitching up Misty Knight. Ward looking haunted when he thinks her attention's elsewhere. Her own voice defending Luke Cage in the airwaves that permeate the city. Kilgrave's voice telling her to put a bullet in her head. Frank Castle's gruff voice inquiring after Karen's safety. Marci and Foggy serving Easter brunch. Ward mumbling something in his sleep.

 

A voice, a needle's sting, a hand on her mouth, the world going black.

 

Pain at the back of her neck, trickling through her spine and enveloping her head in a warm blanket of molasses.

 

She can't even scream. Can't cry. Can't work through the hurt because _oh god it burns it burns make it stop it hurts_ the world washes over her like a forest fire threatening to spread and she's drowning under the weight _help help help_

 

The door to her room bangs open the second she lets out a great, shuddering gasp before the tears start to pour down her cheeks. A nurse she doesn't recognise bustles into the room hurriedly. Tries to calm her down with an explanation of where she is. Metro General. Third floor. Private room. Attacked. She frowns at the last word. There's more to the sentence the word came from, but her thoughts don't knit together right and the woman's distractingly _yellow_ and her touch brings forth daisies and a loss that harms the soul.

 

She whispers "I'm sorry about your husband" and watches the woman blanch and back away in a hurry.

 

The door to her room is left ajar now. There's a trickle of sweat pacing down her spine in a relentless begging prayer of ' _please help please god please save her please help him please_ '. There's a rush of beeping noises flatlining and sputtering and beating beating beating against the pace of her own heart. The world shifts from regular to black-and-white bleak to technicolour frenzy and she's gripping her bed as though it can stop her from tumbling down the rollercoaster that whispers confusing things the moment she closes her eyes. There is a sharp sting in her neck when she shifts her head.

 

She's almost relieved when a blanket of familiar _purple-and-blue_ appears in the doorway and says a ' _hello_ ' that tastes like peppermint and carries the sucker punch of good scotch. She knows it's Jess. Tries to focus her attention on the woman's voice, but it keeps shifting into Kilgrave and her mother and Luke Cage and Claire Temple without pause. She groans out loud. Asks Jess to please-for-the-love-of-all-things-sane-and-good _stop talking_.

 

"Something's wrong with me."

 

She hates how her voice sounds. Brittle, broken, scared. There's a rasp in her tone that makes her throat ache. She wonders if she screamed at the foreign liquid entering her body and creating a chokehold of misery. Wonders if she cried and begged for mercy. She hopes she didn't. Nobody deserves the satisfaction of breaking her. Nobody deserves her pleas for mercy – she doesn't surrender an inch of mercy in her own life, so why should others extend it to her? Why beg for it at all?

 

There's a greenish orange twinge at Jessica's shoulder. Trish blinks owlishly at it until it takes the shape of a rather unassuming doctor. He looks nervous, she finds, and just a little apprehensive about stepping into the room. She doesn't blame him. Not after what she said to that nurse. Where did that even come from? She shakes her head. Where are the colours coming from? Those whispers of _please_ and _thank you_ and _oh god it hurts please make it stop make it end_... She shakes her head again, as if to clear it from the intrusions.

 

"Miss Walker?" It takes all of her willpower to focus on the doctor's calm, careful voice. She nods at him to continue. "How are you feeling? There was some concern about you when you were brought in."

 

"Confused. Messy. _Different._ " She stresses the last word. Slurs it slightly now that she's catching sight of surgical incisions, a gravesite, signed papers being shredded into a million little pieces. She blinks the images out of her head to the best of her ability. "I feel like my mind's been blown wide open."

 

"Ah."

 

"What the _hell_ 's that supposed to mean?" Jessica interjects, looking the doctor up and down like he's dirt under her shoe. "You have no clue at all about what's wrong with her, do you?"

 

"Not of this moment, no, I'm sorry to say. We have been unable to ascertain what the fluid is that you were injected with, though we are subjecting it to every test we can think of. It is connecting to your bloodstream in a way that does not appear lethal at this time, which is good. You're awake, which is good also. I think you may just be out of the woods, ma'am."

 

"At least I'm not dying."

 

It's the last thing she says that day. She withdraws in on herself until even Jess leaves her with the promise of coming back later. Asks Jess to shut the door to her room. Breathes a little easier for it now that it's just her, four walls, a floor, and a ceiling. The cries are less loud when she's cut off from the hallway and the rooms that lie beyond her own. The constant prayers dim like a faraway radio. The impressions of colours and images don't weigh as heavily or immediately this way, either, though they don't fully abate. She curls up in the bed, though she kicks the covers off angrily first.

 

_Make it stop,_ she screams in the innermost part of herself. _I'll do anything..._

 

*****

 

Karen's bright as sunlight shooting through a navy blue sky that following morning. There is a car in the snow. A gun on a table, gleaming in the dim light. Blood-stained shirts and the smell of coffee. A soft, low "ma'am" permeates the air that hugs the woman's slender frame. She watches, fascinated, as the woman's walls come up one by one the longer she's in the room. Even the flickers of colour disappear as quickly as they came, folding themselves back into the young reporter's being somehow. Karen breathes quiet control back into the space somehow, looking at her medical charts with a critical eye and humming out loud at some parts.

 

"How did you do that?" Trish asks, finally, because she needs to know this before she fades away into the lives of everyone around her. "It's like you just became normal again." She shakes her head and laughs sheepishly. "At least, normal to me," she clarifies. "I've been seeing and hearing things around everybody since I woke up yesterday. You're the first person around whom it fades back into nothingness. How?"

 

"Quite simple. The trick's in your breathing. It's the same breath you use before you shoot anything. It draws you back in on yourself to the exclusion of everything else but your target." The blonde doesn't look up to meet Trish's eyes, but pauses her reading briefly to think her explanation through. "All you sense from me belongs to me. It still exists in the space between us, but I chose to close it off from you so it's not accessible. Jess told me you weren't filtering things out right, so I'm trying to help you filter me. I hope it's working."

 

She nods slowly. "It is, thanks." Sits a little more upright and rakes a hand through her hair impatiently. "Is there any news?"

 

Karen folds back the charts carefully and hums to herself contemplatively. "You were found about two blocks away from _Josie's_ by a couple of teenage girls. Their love for you outweighed their fear of their punishment for skipping out on their curfews. Perk of being famous right there," she says with a teasing smile. "You were unresponsive, though your vital signs were apparently in the normal range. There were injection marks on your neck, but that's a weird place for you to inject anything into your body. It became pretty obvious you'd become the victim of some kind of attack, though there's no sign of motive and you were fine outside of the injection and your being out cold." Trish nods as the woman continues talking. She knows the doctor had tried to tell her some of it yesterday, too, but she doesn't think she was ready to hear it just yet. "It wasn't until you woke up that we realised something is really amiss and that whatever you were injected with might have lasting consequences. So we're looking into it and figuring out how to help you best."

 

Trish latches on to the one portion of Karen's story that doesn't make full sense to her. "We?" she asks. "Who's we?"

 

The blonde looks a little bit sheepish. "Me. Marci. Jessica. Frank. Foggy. Danny. Claire. Ward." She sums up the names almost guiltily. "Foggy and Marci are mostly keeping in touch with police and figuring out how to build an eventual case against your attacker. I'm handling the press attention and the contacts with your employer. They send their love, by the way." Trish nods in appreciation of that. "Jessica and Frank are digging up everything they can that the police can't get their hands on without a warrant. Danny and Claire think they might have an idea of how to get you to handle your newfound abilities if they are here to stay. Something about the world being made up of energy and you having to learn how to control the flow or something. I don't know, I didn't dare ask."

 

"And Ward?" She's not sure she should ask. Not sure what the man's going to make of her newfound state, or the issues that will almost certainly arise with it. Still, she asks.

 

"If they ever find the person responsible, I think Ward's going to get to them and tear them apart before any of us even have a chance to react." Karen's grin is appreciative and landing just on the right side of vicious. "I don't precisely know what he's doing, but I do know he's worried sick about you. Think even your doctor's a little bit scared of him at this point."

 

"Why isn't he.. here?" She hates how small her voice sounds. How damaged. How her breath hitches on the last word of a question she had no intention of asking out loud. How she can't help but follow it up with the most pathetic moment she's had in recent memory. "With me?"

 

Karen's gaze is soft when the blonde raises her head to look at Trish. There is no judgment over the weakness she's just shown. Just quiet, reassuring confidence in her reply. "He will be." Upon Trish's scoff of disbelief, a little bit of steel enters her eyes. She raises her eyebrow imperiously. "One of these days, I'm going to tell you I told you so. And then I'm going to laugh. Hard."

 

Trish swallows painfully. Her throat aches with the raw sense of fear in a way it hasn't in years. She has to believe Karen when she gets like this. Has to believe that she won't be left on her own at the end of it all, that she won't scare those people away who matter most to her. Has to believe that whatever she's going to sense in Ward is not going to make him go away permanently. What was that thing Karen said a while ago? Hold on with both hands and never let go? She thinks she might just have to clasp the thought of Ward in her trembling hands and beg his forgiveness for the inevitable.

 

She _knows_ he'll walk away.

 

*****

 

The door to her room creaks open softly before closing again. She senses shades of blue and silvery grey before the images wash over her. A family portrait in which the father's hand hurts the son. A board game with the pieces strewn over the floor. Herself, sleeping peacefully. She blinks as the last image fades. Makes a mental note to go get a haircut sometime before she realises that this is the most inconsequential thought she's had all day. Exhales a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Knows exactly who's standing in the room with her.

 

"Hi," she croaks out.

 

"Hi," replies Ward softly. "Sorry I didn't make it here earlier."

 

"'sokay," she mumbles. Makes a tiny waving gesture of dismissal with one hand. "You're a busy man."

 

"That's not why I'm late." He steps into the dim light of the room enough for her to make out his anxious, tired expression. "I haven't even been at work in my office since your friend Marci called me to say you were in the hospital. _Charming_ woman, by the way." His tone is wonderfully sarcastic for a moment before he softens it again. "I gave your doctor all the information he needs to figure out just what happened to you. If he's not an incompetent fool like the last doctor I encountered here, you'll be all right." He sounds almost mournful in his apology. "I'm sorry. The fluid your attacker injected you with definitely came from one of Rand's facilities. It was an experimental batch that was set to be destroyed. The police are trying to figure out how it got from our facility into the hands of whoever attacked you. I'm _so_ sorry. This should never have happened to you."

 

She absorbs this for a moment.

 

A flash of an older man hitting Ward in the back pushes its way to the foreground.

 

"It's okay." She's not sure if it really is, but she'll be damned if she's going to let him think that he messed up. "What was it supposed to be for?"

 

"Antipsychotic medication. It was supposed to take away any of the hallucinations people often have from that condition, while also acting as a mood stabiliser. The tests they did with it at Rand all came back with different results. Not a single Petri dish in that lab reacted exactly the same to the substance and some of them had rather unexpected reactions to boot, so they froze that part of the program and got me to sign off on its destruction two weeks ago. Nobody has a clue about how in the hell it wound up out on the streets. I'd make inquiries, but they're already scared they're losing their jobs after I.. lost my temper." His expression at that is rather sheepish. She can see him clench and unclench his hand unthinkingly. "I heard they're releasing you tomorrow. How are you feeling?"

 

"I'm crawling up the wall about this stuff, but I'm not actually sick or anything. Nothing they can help in hospital, anyway. I'm simply entirely overwhelmed. My senses don't work right." She smiles bravely up at him when he edges closer to her bed. "That was a _really_ bad batch of antipsychotics, by the way. It had just about the opposite effect."

 

"Marci mentioned as much, yes. Said something about you calling her green and seeing a bear she'd purchased for a man called Foggy that you could have had no knowledge of? Who on earth names their child Foggy? I almost thought she said 'Froggy' and had to backtrack her through the conversation over that for a second."

 

"It's a nickname for her boyfriend." Trish laughs softly, almost wishing she could've witnessed _that_ particular phone call. She hesitates briefly over how to say the next part. The last thing she wants to do is scare him off. "I'm apparently psychic or something now. Not lottery psychic, mind you. Don't think I'll be winning anything soon." She keeps her voice carefully light, although she really just wants to scream about how much of a headache she's getting from it all. Her skin at the nape of her neck prickles in warning. "Just.. people psychic? I get these flashes of colours, images, things I shouldn't even know about them. Even when I'm alone in the room, I don't feel like I am alone anymore. I don't know. It's confusing."

 

Blue sentiment curls and unfolds around her as he settles himself in the chair next to her bed. She turns sideways to look at him. Hesitantly touches the tips of his fingers that have come to rest on her sheets. Breathes out the way Karen taught her. The blue envelopes her, embraces her, covers her with gentle warmth. It's a soft kiss being planted on her skin, skilled hands running through her hair, the scent of him curling into her nostrils after a long day without him. He doesn't look scared at all. Apprehensive, yes, but she can't fault him over that. What matters is that he seems to be settling in to stay with her. What matters is that he's not running away screaming. She sighs contently when she realises he has stopped combing his hair back and appearing in stiff suits that are very much Mr Meachum and not so much Ward. Her gaze softens when his eyes meet her own. She reaches out to touch him more fully.

 

The room blares to life with screaming tearing agonising _red_ the second her fingers trace his wrist.

 

Helplessness. Fear. Terror. It washes over her in waves of blood running river red. She gasps and feels the liquid pool into her throat, that dark muddy sense of being pushed under, the undertow claiming her rage and keeping her in a chokehold that leaves her sputtering for mercy. Her grip on his wrist becomes vicelike without warning. She digs her nails into his flesh as the next gasp of air fills her lungs and she's back in a dark room hundreds of feet above the ground and feeling like she's tumbling through a free fall that can only end one way. Bodies wrapped in plastic. Blood under her fingernails. Cold water submerging her with the dead. She heaves and sputters out a stream of invisible bile. _Can't do this can't do this can't do this._ The next gasp leaves her fingers curled around a weapon. Panicked rage reaches her eyes and she thinks she might yet cry tears of being human after all. The sound of sharpness reaching through flesh, tearing and pulling death into its firm grasp. The pop of a gun's bullet hitting the mark. A man telling her she's the greatest disappointment of his life. That same man hitting her in a way that makes her want to scream, but really just makes her curl in on herself because making a sound is too weak and the man's still there to hear. She feels like she is no one at all. The rush of steady drums beats a new heartbeat in her body.

 

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, over and over and over. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

 

The noise in her head builds to a crescendo of towering rage before crumbling into shards of fear. She gasps at the sensation of acute, stabbing loss. There is quiet lurking on the other side of the stream. Sunlight dancing just beyond her reach. Slivers of light crashing into her red abyss. Blue seeps in between the cracks the light leaves her. There is someone screaming for her. Begging her. Crying over her. She shakes her head as if to clear it. Lets go of what is in her grasp. Wills herself awake awake _awake_.

 

The room around her stills into tears that silently course along her cheeks.

 

"Trish? Trish?" A man's voice, sounding panicked, hovers above her. "Can you hear me?"

 

She frowns. Nods. Remembers her name. White-hot joy of relief claims her body.

 

"What happened?" The boy, sounding fragile. The man, sounding worried. "Are you okay?"

 

"I'm so sorry," she tells him. Her tears are still wet on her skin. "I'm so sorry for what he made you do. For everything he did to you." Her voice shatters into a tired whisper. "You shouldn't have had to go through _any_ of that." Then, unflinching with icy certainty: "I'm glad you killed him. Twice. He was a monster."

 

She can't tell for sure, but she thinks he's just gone perfectly still above her. His presence walls off behind stone and bone she has no hope of reaching through. The blue flickers and fades from her grasp. She is abruptly alone for the first time again. Her eyes open to see him withdraw from her. His back toward her. His shoulders shaking under the weight of the apology she's offering him.

 

She has to say it. He has to know she means it.

 

"I love you." Her voice is unerringly soft. "Whatever else there is in your life, that won't change." Her gaze follows the man as he walks to the door. She knows he can still hear her. Knows he won't shut her out for long. "Ward. I'm _always_ going to be here."

 

He leaves.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is that rare kind of chapter animal in which things vital to the plot marry with softer scenes. One of my faves to write, and one I hope you'll treasure!

Between Claire's matter-of-fact medical knowledge and Danny's excited advice, Trish thinks she might actually have a shot at making this work for her. The isolation of her apartment helps her filter out the background noise and colour of the city. She's been able to sleep through the night for the first time in days. Is getting better at halting the random impressions she gets from people, too, although the colours seem to remain as a constant identifier of who they are. She feels human for the first time again, though she practically lives in sweatpants and still hasn't gone for a haircut.

 

Her mother had called the day before yesterday. Trish is still not sure how the woman got her number, though she supposes the sway of Dorothy Walker can't be underestimated entirely. Even over the phone, she'd learned enough about her mother (a sickly pale red) to know that the woman wasn't actually calling out of concern for her only daughter. No. Far from that. The words 'marketable' and 'failure' had flashed to the forefront of her mind while her mother was blathering on about Karen Page being an insufficient replacement for Trish on the radio and wouldn't Trish please consider going on another talkshow to speak of her attack and how she couldn't believe the Defenders 'propaganda' because Jessica was never supposed to have been the daughter with a claim to heroism. She'd felt exhausted just listening to the woman who'd once dominated every step of her life. Had finally pushed a clipped "goodbye, Dorothy" into the conversation and hung up the phone.

 

She warily looks at the trashbin that contains her offending phone now. She's aware of her reaction (shutting the phone off, taking it apart, smashing the screen for good measure) having been entirely disproportionate to reason. Rage crumbles underneath her fingertips as she grasps the edge of the kitchen counter. She feels sick to her stomach. Grips the counter a little more tightly to push the banana she's just eaten back down. She's not going to fall for this again. Not going to go through with this again. She's not going to crash, not this time. She breathes out a shuddering breath that brings tears to her eyes. She blinks them away furiously. Takes another breath, calmer and deeper. Groans.

 

The feeling of being hopelessly on edge hasn't abated since the first time she woke up in hospital. Claire might say she's physically fine and relatively emotionally stable, but that doesn't mean _shit_ when Claire's used to a massive dose of Catholic guilt and Jess's drinking issues and a bulletproof man and an optimistic monk's idea of kicking ass that too often ends in misery. Said optimistic monk might think she's got the perfect resilience to become a great weapon, or whatever the hell his excited babbling meant, but all Trish feels like doing is calling Ward and telling him he may have had a point about Danny being slightly ridiculous. And Karen might _say_ that Ward's doing fine, but she's quite sure the woman's idea of 'fine' encompasses a blood-covered Frank Castle looking like a walking bruise and so she can't help but mentally reassess 'fine' into 'he might be dying in a ditch somewhere but at least he's breathing'.

 

The fact that he's even bothered to talk with Karen means he's going to come back.

 

She has to believe that much, even though it's been almost a week and a half and his prolonged absence at Rand and on the radio airwaves has been noted in the media. Of course, tabloids had been quick to jump on his absence in conjecture with her own. She's sure that they have been in the Bahamas, the Seychelles, or even Australia at this point. Almost wishes that was true, though she could've done without the _ROMANTIC GETAWAY?_ -speculation. Still, she supposes it's a better sight than the blaring headline of _TRISH WALKER ATTACKED_ that had Karen screaming down the phone at a tabloid newspaper about the dangers of publishing sensationalist tripe. Trish was somewhat pleased to note that nobody seemed to have a clue about who would replace her on Trish Talk, as even the worst of the articles had named her 'a unique radio presence' and 'a tough act to follow'. She'd talked herself hoarse convincing Karen she'd be the right fit to take over. It had taken Marci and Foggy to finally close the deal. It'd been the right call, even if Karen's a little less personable and a lot more in-your-face argumentative than Trish ever tried to be on-air. She's already mentally resolved to doing a joint-show with the leggy blonde now that Karen's growing into public speaking a little more confidently.

 

She straightens her spine now that the worst of her mother's voice has faded into the background of her mind. Regardless of what Dorothy Walker claims, Trish knows she's perfectly in control over her own life. The papers strewn over the table she's set up behind her prove that much. She's not sure what she's looking for yet. Not sure if there's a connection between Midland Circle, Rand Enterprises, Roxxon, Captain America, and IGH that's worth pursuing. She's moved most of the stuff from the 40s to the side for now, convinced that Captain America is the least of their concerns, but the rest of it looks problematic enough to be an issue. She can't help but feel as though she's under a microscope, with her sanity and health as the highest stakes for her and the lowest for whoever's manipulating the world into accepting enhanced human beings.

 

The combat enhancers from IGH are the reason for her current predicament. She hasn't told anyone. Not Jess, who was with her when she almost flatlined from taking them. Not Karen, who would hunt IGH down for answers without even blinking. Not Marci, who'd threaten to sue everyone in the vicinity. Not Claire, who'd actually be able to make sense of the medical terminology. Not Ward, though she's grabbed a hold of the phone half a dozen times to tell him exactly this. Sure, the doctors had told her that the most dangerous effects were out of her system. They'd said that she'd gotten lucky. Half a dozen temper tantrums and a broken mirror later, she was less sure of 'lucky' and more sure of something else going on. There was residue in her bloodwork. Residue in the MRI she'd wheedled out of her doctors, too. She'd paid a good sum to keep it quiet. No use alerting IGH to the fact that an untrained radio talkshow host has assimilated their combat enhancers into her system permanently.

 

She's not sure if her attacker knew. It's something she's treating as a possibility at this time, although law enforcement seemed convinced that her association with Rand Enterprises propelled one of Rand's enemies to attack her with Rand's own serum. Trish groans out loud. It had sounded far more logical coming out of Jess's mouth than it ever does in her own head now. She'd sent Ward exactly one text ( _don't beat yourself up too much, -xx-_ ) after _that_ news had hit the general public in a shockwave of a newspaper's scoop. He'd texted back that evening with less-than-coherent grammar, but his 'just stay safe' had reverberated through her skull even as she asked Karen for more information on Roxxon and Midland Circle. Had reasoned out that staying safe was not the same as staying out of it entirely. Even if everybody else begged to differ.

 

He would disagree, but he isn't here.

 

Her coffee tastes like ashes.

 

*****

 

Half a dozen cups of coffee later, she's relatively certain that she will never sleep again. She's typed up more than twenty pages worth of background information for the new string of articles Karen says she's working on. (Trish isn't sure if she believes the reporter, as half the information leads straight back to Castle somehow, but she's too vested in distracting herself to really give a damn about that.)

 

Trish rubs her eyes tiredly. Actually closes the laptop now that she doesn't know what else to type, although the information is still running a mile a minute in her brain. It's well past midnight and she's wide awake. Again. She's turning into Jessica more and more by the day.

 

The thought of that makes her grimace. However much she loves Jess (and she does, so much so that the room around her fills with brightest pink every time she lays eyes on her sister), she also knows that Jess is always a few seconds away from something impulsive or dangerous or destructive. _Not a fine role-model to have,_ snipes the voice in her head that sounds like her mother.

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

She has _got_ to stop talking to herself someday. It's a habit she developed sometime during her second stint in rehab. No, wait, it was the third. The second time had been the one where she'd only stayed for 48 hours before her escape-and-survive ideas had taken the upper hand. Not her finest moment.

 

Trish rolls her eyes skyward and groans out loud. The last thing she wants to do is go back over her life with a fine-toothed comb. She doesn't want Dorothy Walker's voice back in her brain. Doesn't want the internal snipes of “oh, honey, are you really going to eat that?” accompanying her for every meal. Doesn't want the passive-aggressive voice that took Jess ages to knock out of her back in her brain.

 

She refuses to let her mother back in.

 

A sharp, insistent, loud knocking sound startles her out of her reverie. It takes a moment for her to realise that it's coming from the hallway. _Front door_ , her brain supplies helpfully, which makes her frown. Jess is out on a job – no way she'd come back earlier than planned. Claire and Danny never call on her this late. Karen and Marci might, but she knows Karen's tracking a lead and Marci's buried up to her eyeballs in the chaos of Hogarth's schemes.

 

Her short list of potential visitors screeches to an abrupt halt as she considers the _other_ possibility. Dares not hope. She swings her legs off the couch and haphazardly makes her way to the hallway, cursing the hour before now in which she decided drinking two glasses of strong wine would take the edge off the waking nightmare that's her mother. She dares not hope, not even when the knocking becomes more insistent.

 

She breathes in a moment. The air around her fills with hues of pink and blue. It hesitates before enveloping her. It squeezes gently around her waist. Brushes past her cheeks and forehead in one of the small gestures she knows so well. The taste of strong coffee lingers on her lips when she breathes out.

 

She knows who's on the other side of the door. Her fingers fumble with the latches hurriedly. She opens the door seconds later, feeling horribly unprepared for whatever comes next. Rakes her hand through her unruly hair in a last-ditch effort to not look like she's been awake for longer than twenty-four hours.

 

Blue like morning skies almost knocks her over and sends her reeling as she takes a deep breath.

 

"Hi," he offers.

 

"Hi."

 

"I brought flowers."

 

"I can see that," she remarks calmly, looking at the huge floral collection in his arms. "Did you empty the whole store?"

 

Ward looks a little bit sheepish. "Almost? I wasn't sure what your favourite flower is, so I just told them to give me a bit of everything." A look of disgust crosses his face briefly. Disgust at himself, probably, if her ability to read him still works properly. "I'm sorry for not being here. I've been a jerk about it."

 

"Yes, you have."

 

"And I've been a fucking martyr about my problems, while you're the one that got attacked. I'm just.. yeah. I don't know what to do. Except stop by and bring you flowers and tell you how sorry I am even when it's two in the morning and you don't really want to see me."

 

"You assume too much," she tells him quietly. Steps aside so he can venture over the threshold of her apartment. He doesn't move. "I knew you had a lot to deal with. So did I. But I meant what I said in the hospital." She doesn't need to repeat it, because his eyes blink rapidly and his expression etches into one of firm surprise. Oh, he remembers what she said all right. "You're here now, as I knew you would be."

 

"You knew?"

 

"Karen, Marci, Danny.." she trails off knowingly. "When I've got that many people telling me to wait you out, I listen. Also, I _totally_ have a sixth sense now." She jokes to make light of the increasingly awkward situation as he doesn't dare look her in the eyes. Takes a deep breath and wills his blue to stop flooding her with his warmth. "Why don't you come in?"

 

"Do you want me to?"

 

"Would I ask if I didn't?" she snaps out archly, suddenly, not caring that he flinches at her shortness. She turns on her heel. Tries to walk to the kitchen with more poise than a barefoot woman in a rather short nightgown is supposed to possess. "Close the door behind you and _please_ come put those flowers in water for me before they wilt."

 

She finally hears the door click shut when she's already seated at her kitchen counter staring at one of the vases she loves the most. Jess had bought it for her one summer, dumped it in her lap with the protective wrapper still around it in fact, after she'd seen Trish eyeing it for the better part of an hour. It's one of the most unerring domestic things Jess has ever done for her, so just seeing the blue vase usually makes her smile in delight.

 

She's got a hard time smiling now.

 

Trish can practically sense him dragging his feet in the hallway before he finally appears in the kitchen. She quietly observes him as he places the bouquet on the counter and busies himself with preparing it for the vase. He looks rather haggard from up close with a rare five o'clock shadow making an appearance on his face. He still smells the same as ever, though, warm and spicy and so purely _Ward_ that she almost loses her edge of anger in her desire to curl up within the scent and never let go again.

 

There are too many flowers to fit into one vase. She's gesturing at the glass vase that holds a rather wilted-looking floral collection now that he's run out of space in the blue vase. He follows up every single one of her instructions without argument. She's not sure if he wants to argue but doesn't feel it to be smart, or if he really has run out of anything to counter her with. His hands don't tremble under the weight of her gaze, even though his cheeks are slightly flushed and he seems to be doing his damndest best to not look her straight in the eye. Her heart squeezes painfully in her chest. Her lungs feel fit to burst with the part of her that recognises that carefully avoidant way of making oneself small in another person's space.

 

The last of her anger evaporates.

 

She doesn't want to be her _mother_.

 

It's that decision that propels her to say something. "We should've gone to the Seychelles. It's the only damn article that made me wish rumours were real."

 

A tiny smirk curves his lips before his face grows impassive again. She resists the urge to reach for him and kiss him until that smirk reappears and doesn't fade until she's done with him. Clamps down on the thought with all her might.

 

“Australia would be fine, too.” He volunteers it so softly that she can barely make out what he's saying. His lips curl into a disapproving sneer. “Get away from all of.. this.” He gestures at everything in the room around them. Gestures at the city, even, which looms beyond her windows and balcony as a silent sentinel. His voice crumbles into coarse, broken tones. Breaks under the pressure of his confession.“You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that..”

 

“No reason why we can't.” Her voice is careful, light, gentle. She searches his face so closely that the surprise in his eyes doesn't escape her. Her tone evolves into one of her lilting, teasing flirtations as a response to how perfectly still he's become. “You're not getting rid of me that easily.”

 

“I don't deserve that.”

 

“What? Me staying with you? Me wanting to go away with you?” She shoots the questions back at him rapidly. Raises an eyebrow imperiously when he raises his head to look at her. She sighs when his brow furrows. “I would go _anywhere_ on earth with you. If we could travel through time and space like on that ridiculous British show, I would do that too – with you. Always, _always_ with you.” Her lips curve into a half-smile. “You're stuck with me, mister.”

 

“But I left you! You needed me and _I walked away_!” His voice rises several octaves as it grows louder, filled with a rage that's not at all directed at her. His face contorts into furious disgust. “I _hate_ myself for what I've done to you and I don't know why you're still standing there looking at me like.. like that!”

 

“Like what?” she challenges.

 

“Like..” He exhales noisily. Gestures wildly. “Like _that_!”

 

“Very helpful.”

 

“Oh don't start,” he snaps halfheartedly in the old familiar bickering tone he reserves for when he's arguing for nothing more than argument's sake. “I can't even _think_ when you're looking at me like that. Let alone find the words.”

 

She shrugs. “You came back,” she tells him decisively half a moment later when it doesn't look like he's going to explain himself. “This new thing with me, it's scary for _everyone_. I sometimes think I'm not the one it does the most damage to. I know things about people that I'm not meant to know. Things _they_ don't want anyone to know.” She shakes her head. “Eventually, you might have told me all of that on your own. I hope you would've. But this.. this thing with me.. it exacerbated the situation. Brought it to the foreground before you were ready to share it.” Her voice sounds small and thin to her ears. “I feel like I violated a part of you. So I get why you walked away.”

 

“I don't feel violated. And trust me,” he says, before she can get a word in edgewise, “I would know how that feels.” His eyes gleam with unspoken turmoil. “I had been warned about the state you were in. I just hadn't expected you to see all of..”

 

“All of the things you're ashamed of when you shouldn't be the one to feel shame about them in the first place.”

 

The corner of his mouth quirks into the ghost of a smile. “Trust the psychic to know what I wanted to say.”

 

Trish snorts a reply that's halfway “as if” and halfway “of course”, but he seems to catch exactly what she means all the same. The conversation lulls into the kind of silence Jess despises and Trish loves with all her heart: the silence that comes with waiting on tenterhooks, as though there's something brand new lurking around the corner. She's always associated it with Christmas in the part of her mind that isn't tarnished by her mother's machinations.

 

Flashes of brightest yellow almost make her think the sun has risen in the middle of the night. They dance across his skin the way her fingertips would like to, lingering in all the places that she knows make him smile. She opens and closes her hand in a reflex. Her longing fuses into the yellow with muted oranges and pinks.

 

The sun is rising on his skin and he has no idea. The thought of it makes her laugh softly. Has no idea how to communicate to him what she sees. “I'm so glad you're here,” she says instead. Watches tendrils of blue slip tentatively into the sunrise. “I've missed you.”

 

“I'm glad I came.” He inhales sharply. Refuses to even look at her now. Scoffs at himself. “I don't know how to say what I want to say. Just.. bear with me. Please.” He looks lost as he speaks, a forlorn gaze holding firm on the flowers between them. There's a halting quality to his voice that's rough with disuse, as though his mouth has never thought to form the words he wants to express right now. Her silence seems to strengthen his resolve. He sounds young to her ears all of a sudden. Like the Ward he must have been before life's horrors got in the way of any sort of happily-ever-after he might have had. "I've missed you too. I.. I don't ever want to miss you again. I really.. Trish, I–" He looks angry with himself when the words halt in his throat. She knows exactly what he wants to say. He sputters. Frowns. "I'm sorry, I–"

 

She slides off her seat and pads over to his side of the counter before she has time to consider her actions. He avoids her gaze a little too studiously. Doesn't even indicate that he's aware of her approach, although the blue that reaches out to her tells her a different story. She smiles softly at how tentative it feels to her now. How reverent of her in the way it shrouds her being. "I'm going to bed," she offers. Extends her hand toward him now that she is standing next to him, before he believes that he should be the one to leave. "Come."

 

Trish pretends she doesn't see the tear that slips past his control and courses down his cheek when he takes a deep, shuddering breath. He reaches for her blindly, clasping her hand in his with the desperation of a drowning man. His fingers curl around her own reflexively now that he moves away from the counter. She tugs at him gently but insistently. Her free hand brushes past his wet cheek before curling into his hair. She pulls him toward her, not caring that they look almost drunk in their stumble to get closer to one another, until his forehead rests against her own and his warm breath mingles with hers. "I love you," she tells him again. Whispers it against the curve of his lips, the stubble on his cheeks, the soft skin just below his ear. The kiss she presses to his jawline is unerringly gentle. "I love you."

 

His hand tangles in her hair before he kisses her. "Thank you," he whispers against her skin as though he's offering a prayer to the gods. He buries his head in the crook of her neck. She shivers at the feeling of his breath tingling against her skin. Together, they walk through the living room in a dance they have never engaged in before. She sways under the weight of his trust. Feels almost giddy, unbalanced, as they finally step into her bedroom. The mumble that leaves his lips is something she has to strain to catch. "I won't leave you again."

 

"I know." She's assured of this. Feels almost ridiculously sure of him, of the warm blue that envelopes her and gently sets her on the bed. She can't fight the smile that breaks out on her face now that he withdraws from her long enough to look at her. There is too much wonder in his eyes. Too much love, if such a thing is even possible, and far too much reverence by far. She feels almost shy when his gaze softens and he presses a soft kiss on her brow. She combats her discomfort with a smirk as she curls further onto the bed and challenges: "I wouldn't _let_ you leave again."

 

"Is that so?"

 

"Come here," she invites. Almost orders, though he doesn't seem to mind. Pleads for him to keep being there. "Stay with me."

 

He sits down next to her. This is familiar ground, born of the months spent together. She has seen him untie his shoes before bed prior to this moment, although it somehow feels altogether new to watch him do so now. She shakes her head wonderingly. Isn't sure when the world shifted and rebalanced to make all their old patterns seem brand new. An apprehension coils in the pit of her stomach. Almost as if he can sense her nerves, he turns to her slightly in reassurance. "Like I told you," he reminds her, "we've got time. That doesn't change with this." His hand is warm in her own. "We make our own rules for what comes next."

 

"I'm being stupid." She laughs it off the same way she always laughs her nerves off. "Telling you I love you should make me more nervous than sharing a bed with you, right?"

 

"Everything about you makes me nervous, so I wouldn't know. A good nervous, but still.." He shakes his head. "We decide this together. I want you in my life, and thankfully you feel the same. That's all that should matter for now." There's a gravitas to his words that grounds her and lets her breathe. He pulls his legs up on the bed. "It's just you and me. We won't do anything we don't want to do." A pause. "Or aren't ready for."

 

She lets out a soft laugh at that. "I hope you're ready for me to fall asleep in your arms," she offers tentatively, "because that's literally all I want to be doing right now."

 

He collapses back onto her bed with a laugh of his own and spreads his arms wide in invitation.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, amid all the Punisher-craze in fandom right now, I'm still uploading this new chapter.. and I hope you're gonna love it!

Something's _wrong_.

 

She wakes with the absolute certainty of that knowledge. The room is all quiet around her. For a brief moment, she thinks she just woke from a bad dream that left her feeling unsettled. There seems to be no cause for concern within the warmth of her bed. It takes a moment for her to get her bearings. A moment to realise that Ward is still fast asleep underneath her, though his hold on her has loosened somewhat over the night. A moment to recognise that there's a sound in the next room that absolutely should _not_ be there.

 

Someone is trying to move around as quietly as possible inside her apartment.

 

That just won't do.

 

Carefully, she disentangles herself from Ward. He usually sleeps like the dead when he's with her, woken only by her persistent nudging in the morning, but the frown that mars his sleeping face makes her worry he'll wake now. They can't afford to be found awake. Her skin prickles with a warning that feels like a million silver-pointed needles pressing and rippling into her bloodstream.

 

She almost died the last time she felt this way. Memories of Simpson claw into her skull unbidden. Memories of her heart beating so fast that her brain thudded with its rapid gunfire. Memories of waking in hospital and knowing that kind of darkness can't be survived twice. It presses back into her now that she's fully awake. Whatever is waiting for her outside her bedroom, she knows it's not going to be good.

 

She shivers now that the cooler air streaks across her skin. Ward runs so warm that she has no use for blankets when he's draped over her or pulling her against him in the midst of his drowsy almost-sleep. She's reluctant to leave him. Doesn't really want to go find out what's lurking in the confines of the rest of her apartment.

 

Jess's warning about heroism sticks in the back of her mind even when she gets up off the bed and softly pads over to the sliding door that separates her bedroom from the rest. She tries to shake it from her skull. Knows exactly what Ward would say if he was awake, too, which almost makes her reconsider what she's about to do.

 

She takes a deep breath and slides the door open slowly anyway.

 

The kitchen's overhead lights and one of the lamps near the couch are still on. She watches the shadows they cast for signs of movement in the room. All seems quiet. Even the city's noise has faded into the background now that she's no longer so stupid as to leave the balcony door open at night. Swallowing the last of her nerves, she steps into her living room.

 

An untrained eye might say it looks the same as ever. The blankets she keeps on the couch are still strewn over it haphazardly. The papers on her dining table are still stacked and organised into piles only she can decipher the meaning of. The flowers Ward brought her two nights ago are still on the kitchen counter. Yet, there are minuscule differences in the environment. One of the pillows has been moved from one chair to the other. The block containing her kitchen knives has definitely been moved further to the side. Some of the paperwork she knows for sure she'd stacked is now strewn out over the table once more.

 

Someone is in the apartment. She knows this for sure now. Realises it with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She'd somehow hoped that the noise had been a dreamscape invention. Held out that last grain of hope against all the odds that this was not going to be one of the worst nights in recent memory. What was that saying, again? Hope breeds eternal misery?

 

Trish thinks whoever said that may have had a point. _Knows_ they had a point when there's a noise behind her that makes her heart catch in her throat. Her hands are up in the blink of an eye as she turns around on her heel. Her toes curl on the floor in anticipation of the fight that's already thrumming through her bones.

 

She _extends_ herself into shadows.

 

It's like drowning. Like walking through a thin veil and being upended and dunked in the river on the other side of it. She gasps out a breath. Feels it bubble on her lips, feels the push of water against her tongue, feels the dark reach back to her. She lashes out blindly. Solid black pulls at her eyes. A blanket of noise pierces her ears in shrieks and laughter and screams screams _screams_

 

In mid-air, she is turned by hands stronger than her own. A vice-like grip clamps down hard on her upper arms, restricting her movements and twisting just enough to hurt. She steadies her feet and pushes back against the man as smoke curls into her lungs and his cheap cologne douses her in certainty that he is here to _kill_.

 

She's not dying tonight.

 

"You've got fucking nine lives, you know that?" The man's voice is low in her ear. "Figured I'd stick you with the needle and that'd be the end of your meddling. But no. No. Patsy Walker claws her way up to the fucking surface like a cat that's _desperate_ not to drown." He makes a tsk-ing sound, looking her up and down. "You ain't much. You're worth nothing. But you're unfinished business. Boss doesn't like that."

 

"You're wrong." She huffs it out between two breaths. Scratches at the parts of him she can reach in warning. Hisses out a challenge. "I'm your worst fucking nightmare."

 

She begins to claw at every part of him she can reach. Tears through the dark haze with all the subtlety Jessica taught her: stay alive stay alive _stay alive_. Doesn't matter if bones break. Doesn't matter if your skin drips blood. Doesn't matter if your throat catches fire or your feet can't find their balance. Stay alive. Stay alive.

 

Don't waste your breath.

 

She huffs out a short, sharp breath before she twists. Slices her hand at the man's neck rapidly. Hits the soft tissue that makes his breath catch in a rumble within his chest. Hits at his face, his chest, his stomach. Is always a little too fast for him. Her blows land. Her punches strike.

 

She doesn't fight the grin that breaks out onto her face. Vibrance of purest white shoots up her spine and tingles yellow gold in her veins. Her blood thrums in her ears. Thunders in her skull with every mark she lands on her home's invader. These are the remnants of her death.

 

He adjusts faster than she wants him to.

 

She's up in the air before she knows it. Hot pain shoots through her back as she's slammed against the wall. The paintings she's painstakingly hung up tremble and shift at the sudden impact. She closes her eyes when the man's hands keep her immobile in mid-air. Feels his hot breath on her when he steps closer, closer, closer. Then, finally, the sharp prick of a knife against her skin.

 

She panics. Fear claws its way to the forefront of her mind. Claws its way up her throat desperately, longing to escape her body. The blade is sharp on her throat. The weight of him remains too pressing against her body. His smile, even in the dim light, speaks of something that promises a world of pain. She struggles to get a foothold, a toe on the floor, anything that gives her leverage. Scrambles for the nearest object – _any_ goddamn object – that will give her freedom. Red blossoms in her mind. Dark seeps in around its edges. She feels sluggish from its tar, as though it's mud restricting the movement of her limbs.

 

There is a woman that's not her screaming in her head. A girl half her age pleading for mercy and a quick death. A boy she doesn't know with long, deep cuts marring the space where his eyes used to be. An old man divulging secrets with every cut of the blade. Memories run river red in her mind. She gasps, going under. She gasps, letting go. The man's mind is a jungle she doesn't want to navigate too long. There is an abyss waiting underneath him, set to devour all who cross his path. She shakes her head. Clears it with every ragged, gasping breath she can claim.

 

Ward's voice pierces through the veil of her fear in rapid, clipped, raging tones. A fury white as snow washes over her, setting her bones in ice and letting her breath escape in wisps of smoke. Her attacker doesn't pay her any heed. Not now that he's half-turned to dismiss Ward's claim over her. Not now that he's jeering about helpless millionaires being forced to watch their bedwarmers die. She takes the rage. All of it. All of it until she trembles with it and her teeth lock into a snarl that's fury personified. Thinks of all the things that can break. Of all the things she wants to keep.

 

Her eyes lock on Ward.

 

_Let me keep him,_ she thinks wildly. Bargains with the universe the only way she knows how. Makes a demand she knows comes from love and love alone. Prays it's enough. _Let me keep him_ _ **safe**_ _._

 

The cold on her throat dissipates. The pressure on her body vanishes. She's not trapped now. Not held down now. She's dimly aware of a new sort of panic roaring in her ears. Pays it no heed. It's not _her_ fear.

 

It's _his_. The man's hold on her is fading as though she is water rippling through his fingers and crashing to the ground on which he stands. His eyes have widened in alarm. Her feet hit the floor. On any other day, she would've laughed at the comical sight his fear offers her.

 

Today, she just smiles.

 

Trish _pushes_.

 

The air around her shifts. White fury uncoils from the pit of her belly. Moves. Flashes of it ripple past her body in a way that makes her hair stand on end. She reaches out. Thinks about all the ways to break someone.

 

The man's body twists.

 

Falls.

 

_Breaks_.

 

The red vanishes. The black tar dries in the well of his nature abruptly. The voices in her head go silent.

 

She lets out a deep, shuddering breath. Then another.

 

Her hands begin to tremble as her legs give way. Dimly, she's aware of a voice shouting her name over the blanket of quiet that has thrown itself bodily onto her brain as she sinks to the floor. She shakes her head. Once. Twice. Tries to clear it until sound comes rushing back in. Her ears are ringing sweet silver bells before giving way to the high-pitched rush of an angel's voice interlacing with the flatline of a life support machine.

 

“Trish!” Strong hands grab her shoulders, cup her face, brush her hair back to get a better look at her. She blinks sluggishly. Registers the panic in the man's voice, the tremor in his fingertips, the brief kiss he presses to her forehead. “Trish, talk to me. Come on, baby girl.” His voice catches on his pleas. Dimly, she registers this is the first time he's ever given her a pet name. Would have smiled about that if she had the energy to. “I'm right here, I'm here. Come on, sweetheart.”

 

“Is–,” she starts, haltingly, staring at the body, “is he..?”

 

Ward throws a rather negligent glance over his shoulder briefly before refocusing all of his attention back on her. “Dead?” he asks, never one to mince words. “Think so.” He clasps her hands in his own as she sways in place. “But you're not, and that's what matters. That's what matters to me.”

 

“We have to.. have to..” She licks her lips. Tries to speak past the black tar that's still clotting her throat. “Call Karen,” she says decisively. “Tell her.” Her hand finds Ward's side. Squeezes it until her nails dig into his skin. He has to feel real. He has to feel _present_. “Tell her and–”

 

Bile rises up from the back of her throat and coats her tongue. She hisses out a sharp noise between her teeth as her belly tightens and spasms. There is not enough air in her lungs. Not enough for her to breathe. She hacks out half a cough that turns into a wheeze and strangled sound before long. Desperately tries to gasp more air into her lungs, but only winds up squeezing Ward's side harder as her throat _constricts_. Tears rush to her eyes. _Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe_

 

She relinquishes her hold on Ward when the wave of encroaching darkness rolls over and into her belly and makes it spasm anew. Collapses down on all fours. Digs her nails into her floor, tears coursing down her cheeks, throat tightening and constricting further until the only noise she produces is a hoarse choke. Darkness swirls under her fingertips. The air around her fills with the rustling of feathers beating the pace of hurricanes and lesser storms. She sputters. Coughs. Fights to keep the air inside of her. Battles to get more air into her.

 

White, searing panic blinds her as his hands grab a hold of her and pull her into a seated position. She knows the fear is his as much as it is hers. The panic edges into his voice as he calls her name. It is blindly rioting against will and reason in the tone of his pleas at her back. Her belly contracts anew. Her throat burns and burns and _burns_. This time, she cannot keep the bile down. Cannot fight the tar that coats her airways and esophagus. It trickles out the corners of her mouth. Drips down her chin.

 

Drops of black bile spatter her nightgown. Coat his hand that has come to rest assuredly on her lower belly, but he does not withdraw. The trickle becomes a steady stream. She coughs. Sputters. Attempts an inhale through her nose that leaves her spewing even more, though there is some merciful air in her lungs now. The substance seems to be odourless, which she considers a small mercy, but there's so much of it flowing forth from her mouth that the area around them is steadily growing blacker. She feels as though her insides are threatening to come spilling out of her mouth. His other hand has brushed her hair out of her face and holds it bunched together at her back, fingers entangling with the blonde strands unreservedly as his chin comes to rest on top of her head. It's the only small comfort she has as her stomach cramps again and the noise she makes is less than humanly coherent.

 

“Trish,” she hears, distantly, as though his voice needs to pierce a thick fog around her to reach her at all. “Listen to me. Listen.” There's a catch in his voice that she thinks may be caused by tears, but her back is resting against his chest and she's heaving up darkness too much to be certain. “Reach out. Not to him. Not to this. Not to the city.” He clips it out in a way that keeps his fear at bay. Seems to will the calm back into his voice with every word that tumbles forth from his lips. “Reach out to _me_.”

 

She knows what it costs him to say it. To permit her to do this.

 

Trish leans back against him as much as she can, even though her belly is cramping and her legs feel like they're made of jelly. She tries to inhale a deeper breath. Hears oxygen's rattle mingle with the steady flow of tar, but at least she's breathing and her lungs no longer feel like they are about to burst. Tries to refocus on him with every fibre of her being. Attempts to ignore the fact that she's still retching and coughing up dark tendrils that burn her from within.

 

He meets her halfway. At least, that is how it feels when his hand rises up from her belly and takes hold of her arm. That's how it feels when his arm crosses in front of her chest and squeezes her to him. That's how it feels when she focuses on his heartbeat thudding steadily at her back, his murmurs of her name that sound like prayers, his lips pressing a kiss on the top of her head.

 

Blue begins to encircle her. Pink follows soon after, shooting up and down her spine without warning. There's yellow beneath his fingertips, purple lurking in the huskiness of his voice, brightest white unfolding from his body. Colours envelope her faster than she has time to think. He meets her halfway and the flow of darkness slows and abates. Her hand curls around his leg. Her hand curls around his hand. She slips into the cradle his arms have built for her.

 

_Opens_ to him.

 

The panic and fear are the first things to crystallise in her mind. The sound of her name mingles with the sound of heartbreak and the name of another. _Not her, too._ The thought is wild, but the sentiment is steady. Hers is not the first life he pleads over. There is a shadow lurking at his back that is different from the one inside her. There is loss in him she cannot name, not when all she loves is still alive, but butterflies swarm her hair and she loses something to the wind all the same. _Joy_ , it whispers. And then: _mommy_.

 

Christmas ornaments, stories about flying reindeer, the scent of chocolate and peppermint. Arms around her, _love shall be our token love be yours and love be mine_ , a sweet lilting voice lodging itself in her brain until she believes the words it's singing, encouragement mingling with brand new rollerskates. Memories of hospital corridors tug at her brain. The sunshine falls away from her fingers.

 

She rattles out a cough. Tries to speak. “You look,” she starts. Coughs again. The burning sensation in her throat flares to life anew, but the bile no longer constricts her speech or breath. “Like your mom,” she finishes.

 

“Dad always said so,” he replies, and with that come the sharp red and the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that almost make her throw up again.

 

A board game with the pieces all strewn asunder. A fortress of pillows and blankets hidden on the floor of a wardrobe. Blood and water trickling down into the shower drain. Learning how to sew so the stitches in skin won't look so haphazard next time. The stab and poke of the needle, the sharp rush of danger, the comforting blanket of hazy highs she knows all too well...

 

She gasps out lucidity in the next breath.

 

The darkness that poured out of her has abated. There is a pool of sticky, coalesced, slick-looking black tar spreading out from where they are seated. She shudders and closes her eyes when she sees it pooled together underneath her attacker, coating his lifeless body with the thick substance.

 

She has killed a man.

 

That's the truth of tonight. That is the truth that stares up at the ceiling with eyes that can no longer blink or see. That is the truth that lies on the cold floor before her. That's the truth not even Ward can shield her from, although she knows he would try if she only asked.

 

The worst of it is that her mother was right. Trish is poison to the touch: pretty to look at but with a venom underneath that could murder a man. She swallows thickly. Tries to extract herself from Ward's hold on her, although her legs feel like they will give out under her and her heart is beating an erratic pace that flutters with the weight of the same dark wings that coat her dreams. Her fingers tremble as she brushes his hands away.

 

“What is it?” There is sharp alarm in his voice. She almost laughs at that. Wants to tell him he need not worry, but the words just don't come out right for that. Maybe there's a _lot_ for him to worry about. “Hey,” he says, “just talk to me.”

 

“My mother was right about me,” she whispers, scooting away from him as much as she can. “You need to leave. You need to go. Get away from this.” She gestures wildly at the apartment. At the dead body on the floor. At herself. “Get away from me.”

 

He shoots her an incredulous look. His hair's messed up from sleep, his eyes never leave her face, his fingers curl into a loose fist, and she knows he's too beautiful to keep in her life. “Not going to happen, you hear me?” he shoots out, then, and she thinks the sharpness in his voice may pierce any wall she tries to erect around him. “I'm not going anywhere. Your mother's never right about _anything_. Least of all about _you_.”

 

She shrugs. “I'm not good for you. I'm not good for _anyone_.” Hates the way her voice grows smaller as she says it. Hates how it curves out in the air between them in a broken whisper, sounding tired and desolate all at once. “I'm just toxic.”

 

“As someone who used to be intimately acquainted with toxic,” he starts, “I assure you that this is not you.” His eyes glitter strangely in the dim light. For a moment, she thinks that they have caught fire when his gaze fixes on her. “Your mother's a liar, Patricia Walker.” Her full name hangs in the air between them precariously. He doesn't care. This man of hers does not pay her carefully crafted balance any heed. “Your mother is a controlling piece of work, Patsy Walker.” The nickname, then, rushes through her in a tangle of hardened molasses and honey. Rolls off her the way it used to roll off her tongue when wheedling her way into drugs, clubs, and worse. “Your mother does not know you, Trish Walker. But _I_ do. _I_ know you.”

 

She wants to deny it. Wants to deny that the man seated in front of her, coated in the same midnight darkness that filled her up, knows her better than anyone. Wants to deny that he touches all the parts of her nobody else does, wants to deny that he sees _her_ instead of all the faces she's gotten good at acting out, wants to deny that she is something more than poison. Wants to deny she's worth keeping.

 

She begins to shake her head. Tries to affirm her denial. Tries to send him away.

 

He decides to stay.

 

“I love you.”

 

The words hang in the air between them. He does not look surprised at having said them, though they cost him his composure only a few days before. His eyes are steady. His hands open to her in supplication. Blue and pink swirl around him before reaching her in a way she recognises is very much deliberate.

 

_Come here_ , blue insists, and pink follows the insistence with _love, sweetheart, baby girl_ in the next breath he exhales.

 

It's enough to call her back into his arms. She crawls into his waiting embrace selfishly, daring the universe to take this away from her. Daring the poison inside her to rise up and claim him. Somehow, somehow, it never does. She relents, tired as she is of fighting. Exhausted as she is of being alone inside herself. She folds her fingers into his shirt, her arms splayed out across his chest, her hair spilling across the hairs on his arms, light mingling with dark in and around them. All she feels is something _bright_.

 

“I love you,” he whispers into her hair. She blinks sleepily against the slivers of light that dance across their skin. Breathes in his warmth and presence when his arms tighten around her and his lips brush her forehead. “I love you,” he says again. There is no trace of doubt in his voice.

 

Her eyes flutter shut. “Love..” she mumbles, meaning to answer him. Meaning to say it back, now that he has finally expressed what she knew was inside him all along.

 

Sleep claims her before she can.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Trish wakes to the sound of distant voices.

 

She's in her bed. She knows she shouldn't be, because it's not where she was last. There is no hard floor underneath her, no dim light gleaming over dark tar, no... Trish groans softly as the memories flood back in. No dead body lying before her in her living room. She exhales a noisy breath. Her body _hurts_. She feels as though she's been spread too thin, stretched out too wide, chewed up by monsters and spat back out _wrong_.

 

She supposes that's a good enough assessment of what happened last night as any.

 

Her body protests as she slowly moves into a sitting position and sweeps her feet out from under the blankets. The voices in the next room seem to be engaged in an argument of sorts, if the steadily climbing volume is anything to go by. It's not really curiosity that propels her to get to her feet. Not really. It's the ravenous hunger that's gnawing a steady pace through her belly that really motivates her to get up at all.

 

Trish sways on the spot. Steadies herself by putting her hands on her legs and huffing out a breath to bring her back to centre. Blinks as she takes in her appearance. Gone is the rather flimsy nightgown she wore for the past few nights. Instead, she's dressed in her softest sweatpants and one of her most ancient tanktops she should've thrown in the trash ages ago.

 

Belatedly, she realises the nightgown is probably in the trash already after all the black goop spilled out onto it. She feels fresher than she has in months. Her skin is clean. The ends of her hair are still light and blonde and untainted by darkness. She lifts some of the stray strands to her nose. Inhales. Isn't surprised to smell a faded strawberry and mint that's always her go-to shampoo.

 

She tentatively takes a few steps toward the sliding doors that lead to the living room. Halts in her tracks when she can make out the who's who of the voices. She recognises Danny's young, excitable voice straight away. Strains to catch Karen's barely audible breezy tones. There's a slight pause in whatever they're discussing before a third voice adds in their two cents. She's relieved to hear Ward's darker, lower tones replying to whatever Danny said last. Relieved to find that he's still here.

 

Trish takes another step toward the doors. This time, she's close enough to hear what they're saying.

 

“– no real idea about that yet.” Ward's voice is somewhere midway between resigned and concerned. “I've put some nets out, see what gets caught up in them at Rand. Someone is bound to know.”

 

“I'm asking around too. We're going to get to the bottom of this.” Karen's determination is the first thing to make Trish smile. Not for the first time, she considers herself lucky to have the reporter in her corner. “Shouldn't take more than a few days to get some preliminary information.”

 

“Yes, but what happens right now?” Danny sounds almost anxious about it, as though whatever happens next will affect him on a personal level. “Is she.. is Trish going to be all right?”

 

She hears Ward heave a sigh in the other room.

 

“Nobody's going to tie him back to her, if he's ever found at all. We have to focus on whoever he was working for. He was aiming to kill her and that will not go away unless we cut it down to its root. She's going to be okay once that's done.”

 

“Claire said that she's doing okay physically,” interjects Karen, “but the black stuff she vomited up is mildly concerning and should not become a regular occurrence.” Trish closes her eyes at that. Prays that it won't. One experience like that is enough. The reporter seems to agree. “I think we can all agree that we need to steer her a little clear of danger, right? At least for the time being, until she's a little more secure.”

 

“She killed someone.” Danny, ever astute. She recognises the waver in his voice that slowly strengthens into calm force. “You can't just pretend it didn't happen! She murdered a man and you're all acting like that's perfectly normal when we all know it's not!”

 

“Of course it _happened_.” Ward's clipped tones betray how much at the end of his patience he really is. “All Karen and I are saying is that we took care of what came after and that we need to focus on the future right now.”

 

“It's not right.”

 

“You listen to me, Danny.” Ward's words come out in an angry hiss that she has to strain to hear. “Dad killed people. He was a _murderer_. I am complicit in hiding those bodies.” His voice cracks on the confession. He lets out an angry huff of breath after, as though he's personally offended by Danny's presence. “If you think for a _second_ that I wouldn't do the same _and much worse_ for the woman in that bedroom, you're fucking deluded.”

 

Silence follows that confession. Then, Karen's barely audible “hear hear” lodges itself in Trish's brain. She turns away from the doors, reeling from the readiness with which not only Ward but also Karen has her back. Reeling from how easily both of them are prepared to cover up murder if it means having Trish in their lives.

 

She chokes back a sob. Tries to drown out all the voices in her head that sound like various versions of her mother saying she doesn't deserve to have someone care about her as long as she's like this, yelling she can't rely on anyone but herself, screeching about how nobody will like Patsy if Patsy keeps being difficult. Stumbles back to bed and seats herself on the edge of it, legs trembling, hands shaking, breath catching in her chest. Panic claws at her if she lets it. Fear tightens her jaw, hunches her shoulders, tastes like bitterness and dry-swallowed pills.

 

One of the doors creaks open. Ward slips through the opening it offers, almost tiptoeing into the room as though he's afraid of waking her. The door slides shut behind him. She heaves a sigh as she still hears Danny and Karen arguing softly in the other room.

 

It's enough to alert Ward to the fact that she's wide awake and sitting up. He stops dead in his tracks. Stares at her when she gives him a little half-hearted wave. Frowns.

 

“How much of that did you hear?”

 

“More than I think you wanted me to,” she mumbles softly. Guilt twists her stomach into little tiny knots. “I hate it when Danny's mad at me.”

 

“He's _not_ mad at you.” She scoffs and rolls her eyes at that. The bed dips under Ward's weight as he seats himself on its edge next to her. “Danny's being a bit of an ass, of course, and a great deal more judgmental about murder than he's got any right to be. He'll get over it. This time tomorrow, he's going to buy you a breakfast that'll hurt your teeth because he never grew out of his cereal-and-jelly phase like the rest of us did.”

 

His voice is laced with both exasperation and amusement at that, but she can't manage more than a very weak smile now that nausea's taken hold. She doesn't believe Ward's reassurance for a second. Her hands fold around one another nervously, pinching and squeezing in a way that's almost painful. She can't meet his gaze.

 

“I killed someone,” she says softly. Wants it to be real even when it feels like she's still dreaming. “I know he was trying to kill me. That he probably would've killed you if you'd gotten in his way.” Her voice catches in her throat. She swallows painfully. Hates herself. “I wish I could say I panicked.”

 

“It's okay.”

 

Tears sting her eyes. She shakes her head mutely. None of this is okay. Her throat feels tight. Her chest is heavy. She can't blink the tears away. Chokes out a sob before her throat constricts entirely and her eyes start to burn. Her hands fold around her bedsheets and grasp at them so hard she fears she might rip them apart.

 

Ward shifts on the bed. His hand clasps over her hands tightly, stilling their worried movements in their tracks, before moving to her cheek in an attempt to brush away the one tear that did slip past her control. His other hand comes to rest on her hair. “It's okay,” he says again. Her voice breaks and shatters into a tired protest against his words that finally gives way to tears. Still, he maintains the comfort he attempts to offer her. “Sshh. It's okay.”

 

Her hands let go of the sheets and reach for him blindly. “No, it's not, it's not,” she whispers as she crumples against him. “I'm not okay.”

 

Trish has never been a noisy crier. She's perfected the art of the silent sob over the years. Even now, she tries to muffle the sound of her grief behind her hands as his arms wrap around her and pull her to his chest. She can't remember the last time she lost control like this. Can't recall the last time she fell apart in front of someone that wasn't Jessica, and even with Jess those moments are few and far between. She tries to control her tears. Fails miserably when he starts making soft shushing noises.

 

She makes a noise of distaste that has him chuckling out a soft laugh. “You're gonna be okay,” he tells her decisively. Listening to his deep voice vibrate through his chest almost makes her believe anything he says. The sound of it makes her wish she could curl up with him and not let go. She sniffles out a protest all the same, not daring to believe him completely when he tries to reassure her. Makes another noise of distaste when she notices she's staining his shirt with tears. “Hey, sshh, you're gonna be okay. Maybe not right now,” he remarks wryly as she chokes out a sob and clutches his shirt in both hands, “but you will be. You're strong stuff, Walker.”

 

“Like the scotch,” she hiccups. Contemplates that statement even when tears are streaming down her face and her nose is just on the bad side of runny. Amends it slightly. “I think I'm the better Walker.”

 

“I think you are, too,” he says, and the laugh that reverberates through his body almost makes her feel better. She feels his lips ghost over her brow before he rests his chin on her hair. “Claire warned me you might have a bit of a crash after everything that's happened to you lately. Think she was surprised you hadn't had one yet.”

 

She wants to reply to that, but is interrupted by the door sliding open a second time. Navy blue slips into the room, followed by a sunshine yellow that's at war with streaks of red. Trish breathes in the scent of the strongest coffee known to man blended in with gunpowder and freshly printed newspapers. Karen, then.

 

“Sorry, didn't know I was interrupting anything,” says her friend hesitantly. “But, Ward, Danny just left and I think he was muttering something about needing to talk to Matt... I think those idiots might be intent on messing with Midland Circle again. They seem to have gotten it into their heads that some remnants of it are the ones responsible for this mess.”

 

“As if the first crater in New York wasn't bad enough already?” Ward asks, voice sharpening in annoyance. “I'll call Jessica. Hogarth, too. If anyone can put a stop to Overzealous Ninja and Catholic Guilt-trip, it'll be those two.”

 

“I'll watch Trish for you.”

 

“I don't need watching,” sputters Trish indignantly. “And you need to redirect them to IGH. Jessica has details as to why.”

 

“Got it. And, yes, I'd feel better if Karen stayed with you for now.”

 

“Psht.” Trish makes an impatient noise and waves her hands as she extracts herself from Ward's embrace. “I suddenly feel like I'm five years old again.”

 

Ward smirks. “Have fun babysitting,” he tells Karen as he rises to his feet. Narrowly avoids the swat Trish aims into his direction. He's already pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialling someone the second he's up, but that doesn't stop him from pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “See you tonight, sweetheart.”

 

“Bye _dah_ -lin',” she drawls out, drawing forth a shudder from him.

 

Her laughter follows him all the way to the door.

 

*****

 

Karen's presence is a breath of fresh air.

 

Trish doesn't quite realise this until they're halfway through _The Princess Bride_ and reciting lines back and forth between them. The blonde is strewn out over Trish's bed, laughing and shaking her hair back to offer up her perfect rendition of Inigo Montoya's iconic lines. Karen's all sunshine and radiance wrapped up in tightly controlled spaces. Doesn't push Trish for anything. Pretends she doesn't notice how Trish always cries at the good parts of every movie, how Trish always looks for emergency exits first when entering a new building, how Trish is usually twenty steps ahead of everyone else and still pretends something is brand new information.

 

Trish thinks she loves her for it, even when Karen's navy blue streak wraps itself around the woman's body more often than not these days. Darkness lingers in the set of Karen's shoulders, though her eyes are light like clear morning skies. She knows Matt and Foggy put the blame for that at Frank Castle's feet given half the chance, but somehow Trish thinks that this runs deeper than one coffee-addicted vigilante with a penchant for leaving dead bodies in his wake. This is something innately _Karen_ , honed to perfection from childhood onward, and Trish doesn't think she has the heart to ask for the reasons why.

 

She doesn't ask, but there's a car stranded in the dead of night and a hole in all of Karen's family photos and somehow she _knows_ all the reasons why. _Flash_. Small, waifish-looking Karen fishing up frogs in a shallow pond. _Flash_. High school varsity jackets slung over two deck chairs at the pool. _Flash_. A blond, curly-haired, devil-may-care boy engaged in a staring contest with a sandy-haired man. _Flash_. Here come the names. Paxton, Penelope, Kevin. Kevin. _Kevin_ , and the world turns dark.

 

“Kar?” She hates how fragile her voice sounds, still, scraped raw by the previous night's events. “Are you still controlling how much of you I see?”

 

“Yeah, why?” The blonde sits up, brow furrowed, movie already forgotten. “I think I still have it under control now.”

 

“You don't,” mutters Trish, loud enough for the other woman to hear. “I think what happened last night poked holes in the defenses Danny helped me build.” She doesn't mention how Danny looks a bit like Kevin, or how wistful Karen's eyes become at the mention of him. There are enough demons lurking within Karen's gaze without Trish adding more to them. “Could you, um.. could you talk me through what you do to withdraw from me? Maybe I can adjust it..”

 

“I wouldn't want you locking yourself in like that,” fusses Karen in the next breath, admitting to a self-control that rivals Trish's best efforts. She tilts her head as she speaks, putting forth thoughts that seem to make some modicum of sense. “Did you consider that maybe your abilities are getting stronger? That maybe you've still got that control, but you're just getting more powerful?”

 

“Even so, I can't afford to read people's memories like that.” Trish shakes her head. “I know they're getting stronger. I couldn't have done what I did last night otherwise.”

 

“Good thing you did.”

 

“I wouldn't call killing a man good.”

 

Karen shrugs. “Maybe it isn't. But he can't hurt you, or anyone else, and that matters.” Brightest red whirls around Karen's fingertips for a moment before the woman's gaze locks onto Trish. “You can't blame yourself for doing what you had to do to survive.”

 

That's the Karen she knows best. That's the Karen who'd taken one look at the Hand's soldiers, grabbed the nearest weapon, and told them to make a run for it. That's the Karen who'd called _krav maga_ the best kind of self-preservation known to man. That's the Karen who'd walked headlong into a meeting with one of New York's worst crime syndicates and come out victorious.

 

“How long does it take until you believe that?” asks Trish, curious, knowing full well that the woman's gutsy way of life took its time to settle into Karen's system. “How long before you start thinking this is just the way life is now?”

 

Karen eyes her critically. “For you? Give it a few weeks. A month at best.”

 

*****

 

Karen's right, of course, as Trish had anticipated she would be. Three weeks have passed since the attack in her apartment. She's back to work, back out in the world, and the only thing that bugs her now is Ward's insistence on a security detail.

 

“I still say they're redundant,” she says, glaring at Ward one night when it becomes clear that he's not letting up on it. “I can practically kill a man with some form of weird telepathy, I can read minds if I really try, I can sense danger better than Jess can these days..”

 

“You don't have a gun.”

 

“I do, actually,” she says, recalling the feeling of it in her grasp. “I would use it, too. I don't need it anymore, but if you want me to carry it I will.” She shrugs callously. Tilts her head. “I have not had bodyguards since my Patsy days. I am _not_ starting now.”

 

“I want you _safe_.”

 

Trish heaves a sigh at the set of his jaw. This is Ward at his most ridiculously stubborn, refusing to see all the facts laid out before him in some misguided attempt to protect her. “I _am_ safe,” she says, and this time she almost believes herself. “I understand what you're trying to do for me. I just..” She shifts uncomfortably on the kitchen chair when his mouth curves downward. “I don't want to look scared.”

 

“As opposed to looking alive?!” His voice is part-hiss and part-shout, and he gestures wildly in thin air. “Fuck your memories of Patsy. Fuck that harebrained notion of yours that you can become some kind of superhero.” His eyes flash furiously as he stares at her. He spits the words out of his mouth as though they're toxic. “I need you to be safe.”

 

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe that's not your call to make?” She's pissed off now too, laying her hands flat on the table before her and spitting venom right back at him. “I have worked too hard to get away from Patsy for me to go running back to those days at the first sign of trouble. I can help people, really help them, and I can't do that when I'm hiding behind someone else's back!”

 

“What about you?”

 

“What about me?”

 

“You always, always talk about helping others. What about helping yourself? Doesn't that count?”

 

She leans back in her chair. Hisses out a soft curse. “Other people need me more than I need me.” She knows that to be fact. “I'm as protected as I can possibly be, Ward. What more do you want?”

 

“ _I_ need you!” His eyes are wild, now, and there's a vulnerability in them that claws at her. “You are out there making a difference to everyone and I know I can't stop that and I don't want to stop it because it's one of the things that makes you beautiful but I just want..” He gasps for breath. Chokes out the words. “I want you to be able to come home. To me.”

 

“Then let me do what I do best. Let me do my saving people thing, as Marci put it.” Her voice softens now that there are tears in his eyes and he's trying to look anywhere but her. “Ward, I will come home to you. I will. But if you protect me at every turn, put up a wall of bodyguards so I can't reach anyone, keep me safe by suffocating me... I won't want to come home. I can't live like that.” She shakes her head. “I have built this.. this ivory tower around me. Panic room, security cameras, a bunch of locks, you name it. And these past few weeks, I haven't found myself checking any of it. I haven't used them.”

 

“I was surprised when you just opened the door like that to let me in,” he confesses. “But what does that have to do with..?”

 

“I don't have to check them anymore, because I already know who's at my door before I open it. I don't need to use any of those safety measures, because I feel safe inside myself. I want to go out there and make others feel safe, now, too. I want to live in a world where we've got no more ivory towers.”

 

“Idealist.”

 

“Pragmatist,” she shoots back, smiling, knowing the argument's won in the way he concedes to her. His hand comes to rest on hers in response, which is all the assurance she'll ever need. “Don't lock me up. Let me be myself.”

 

“You're all I want you to be.” His reply is instantaneous. “Knowing you, you've got this whole thing figured out..”

 

“I do.” She nods. “I have a name.”

 

“Oh spare me.”

 

“I really do.”

 

He sounds almost resigned, now. “Is it at least a good name?”

 

“Yes!” She smiles, victorious, assured that she has found purpose in the madness her life evolved into over the past few weeks. Offers only one word by means of explanation: "Hellcat."

 

“No!” His response is instantaneous. Clipped out in that god-give-me-strength voice he usually reserves for Danny. “You are _not_ going to play superhero for the entire state of New York!”

 

“Just the city, then,” she says with a shrug.

 

He blinks at her in response. “I can't tell if you're serious or not.”

 

“I'll inform you before I start wearing spandex out in public.” She's honestly thought about it. Even dragged Jessica's costume out of its hiding place at the bottom of her drawer. She thinks she's going to need a different look, though. “I really want to do this.”

 

“I have one rule.”

 

“If you say 'no killing', I swear I am never letting you sit near Matt again,” she gripes.

 

His grin is decidedly more wicked. “You keep the spandex indoors.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, everyone. This is the chapter that took me at least a month to write and gave me the biggest grief imaginable in this entire writing process. I sincerely hope you'll enjoy this long, _long_ fluff/smut-filled piece..

The quiet in the city feels to her like the calm before the storm.

 

"I keep having this vision," she says to Ward one night as she's curled up against him on her couch. He makes a small "hm"-sound that tells her he's listening. "Crows taking flight against a blood red sky. They stream out and engulf the city streets until everything is darkened by their feathers. Their rustling wings sound like a battlecry." She rubs her eyes tiredly. "I've been able to block almost everything else out unless I want to sense it. This, however... no matter what I do, it doesn't stop."

 

"What do you think it is?"

 

"I'm not sure. I assumed it was some kind of latent expression of trauma or whatever, like my inner turmoil coming out in the worst possible way. Could also be a vision of something that's going to happen, though."

 

He turns his head sideways slightly to get a better look at her. "As much as it pains me to say it," he begins, discomfort showing on his face, "maybe you should tell Danny and Jessica about it. Make them aware of it, at the very least, before we all get our eyes pecked out by a bunch of birds." His hand toys with a loose strand of her hair while he speaks. "I keep thinking that you're really going to go out one day and do all the stuff they do. Jessica always makes it sound like you're the least reluctant superhero of our generation."

 

"Maybe I should, like we talked about the other day."

 

"You don't owe this world _anything_."

 

"Maybe it's not about what I owe anyone," she ponders. "What if it is about what I can do to help? To really make a difference for people?"

 

"You already do," he says quietly. His voice is _this_ close to breaking and she doesn't think she'd be able to stand the sound if it did. "To me, you always have."

 

She sits up and turns to face him. Rakes a hand through her hair as his fingers fall away from it. Takes a deep breath and tucks the stray strands of it behind her ears. He seems to catch on to her intent, for he nods and moves his arm away from his lap. His eyes never leave hers. She reaches for him. Needs to see, to know, to _feel_. His eyes are darkening anchors in the sea she plunges into willingly.

 

Silvery grey cobwebs reach her first this time. They are a cool and gentle brush against her cheek, giving way to a steel flash of calm that courses through her spine and makes her sit up even straighter. There's an assurance to it that she won't ever be able to mimic, worn with years of certainty that made a mask out of it. She tilts her head and straightens it again the way she's seen Ward do a million times. Rolls with the punches of the silver trickling over her skin, becoming hard and soft underneath its pathways all at once, until the silver colludes and stills somewhere behind her eyes. She blinks to find it fading from her grasp.

 

His hand has risen up to trace the side of her face. The sky opens to her, bright and blue and dark at once. She tightens her hand on his biceps reflexively at the onslaught. Digs her nails in until he lets out a hiss. Her eyes flutter shut as his thumb brushes past her lower lip. There's a gentle sway to the blue as it becomes the roll and fall of the tide inside of her. She finds herself _wanting_. Leans into his hand when he cups her face. Smiles at the marvel that shoots through her, the wonder at touching and being touched in a lover's grasp, the carefulness with which he leans into her in turn. Finds herself wanting more.

 

She opens her eyes to find _so much_ waiting for her.

 

There's an angry red streaking just past his mouth that fades the moment she chases it away with the trace of her finger. She watches him closely as the red hue fades from his gaze altogether the longer he looks at her. There's a longing to him that she cannot name. _Home,_ she sings into the silence that exists between them. _This is home._ A fire erupts in the pit of her belly, as though she's chasing shots at Josie's and has finally landed on the one that makes her feel wobbly and unstable.

 

_There's_ the kick. The free fall. The trust.

 

She's a good deal more frantic in claiming his lips than she has any right to be. She tumbles over him in a tangle of limbs and feelings and the blue stutters to a halt. A blush colours her cheeks when she realises there is a stubborn pulse of pink, careful and small, blossoming underneath her touch. She smiles against his lips before reclaiming him. _Mine,_ she thinks viciously toward the universe, not caring which deity will hear the claimant shout of belonging. He matches her in every scrap of her fervour, lips pressing back inquisitively against her own, hand dropping to her hip to steady her when she finally straddles him. He is unravelling underneath her. Bending to her touch in surrender of all she has to give. He is not without his own needs, this man of hers, and she tilts her head back in smiling victory when his hand tangles in her hair and pulls gently until her neck is exposed to his lips. His breath is hot on her skin before he presses his lips against her pulse.

 

"Please," she finds herself whispering.

 

He tilts his head back to gaze at her with dark, dark eyes that lay claim to her very soul. His fingertips dance across the strip of skin above her waistband playfully. "What?" he demands of her, then, and she thinks she can see amusement lurking in the shadows. "Tell me."

 

"I want more of you." Honesty has always worked for her in life so far. She shrugs casually when his fingers still their motions and heat up her skin tentatively. Leans over him until her hair curtains both of their faces and her breath becomes a ghost on his lips. Whispers: "All of you."

 

His answer floods her in brightest blue before his lips recapture her mouth in a kiss that's anything but gentle. This man of hers may leave a mark the way few lovers ever do. She runs her tongue over his lip experimentally, tasting the fear and longing that lurk in the shadows of his soul. Attempts to chase out the demons that make his hands tremble and his gaze grow unsteady. “Are you sure?” he still asks, breath hitching slightly. She leans back to look at him as his hands fall away from her to gesture at thin air helplessly. “I mean..”

 

“Ward.”

 

She needs only say his name before she catches his hands in her own and squeezes them gently. Her forehead comes to rest against his. She feels a laugh bubble up in her chest when their noses bump together – it is exactly the kind of clumsy move that feels like it belongs to them alone. His warm breath dances on her lips before she claims him anew, softer and yet more insistent than before. It's not long before he shifts against her in a way that makes her gasp into his mouth, before his tongue slips inbetween her lips, before his grip on her hands tightens. He's everywhere at once and she's breathless for it, blue and pink and glints of silver steel wrapping themselves around her until even her thoughts go silent, longing thrumming through her veins now that he pulls her in closer.

 

Their hands untangle now that she rests against him and takes a moment to catch her breath. His shaky exhale makes her smile. “Good?” she asks, already knowing the answer before he affirms it with a nod of his head. Her smile curves into wicked. Curls into the space of flirting that always leaves him flustered. Teases out a challenge. “I still want you.”

 

Her breath catches in her throat when he doesn't respond verbally but just tugs lightly on the ends of her hair. His other hand slips under the hem of her shirt. Goosebumps prickle her belly at his touch, featherlight though it is, and she sighs happily when his hold on her hair tightens. Travels kisses up and down his skin when his hand slowly moves toward her lower back and makes a shiver run up and down her spine. He hums out a noise of contentment when one of her kisses lands just beside his jawline underneath his ear. It's not the sound he makes that has her pressing down another kiss on the same spot. No. What convinces her is the way his hand suddenly grips her waist tightly, the way his other hand tangles into her hair until it almost hurts, the way his hips almost involuntarily tilt up until he presses against her fully.

 

The noise she makes in the back of her throat as she moves against him is midway between moan and purr. She feels the room shift around them. Watches, mesmerised, as brightest orange appears with every kiss she leaves on his skin, every time she digs her nails into him, every shift and tilt of their bodies finding a languid rocking pace between them that makes her bite her lip and makes him snarl out a soft curse from between his lips. His hand travels up from her waist, dancing out a pattern on her ribcage before lightly skimming across her bra.

 

Ward's always the careful one. Always the one taking his sweet time with her. Sending her system into overdrive with light caresses. Trish is a good deal more impatient than that. Taking it easy isn't one of her strong suits, which he knows full well. “Don't move,” he warns her as soon as her head tilts toward the bedroom behind him. Wraps his other arm around her waist to stop her from moving. “We're not done here yet.”

 

“If we keep this up,” she gasps when his hand cups her breast, “we are never going to make it to bed.”

 

“Keep what up?” He grins at her. It's the only warning she gets before his other hand drops to her ass and pulls her flush against him. “This?”

 

She can't stop the delighted laugh from spilling forth. “Keeping _that_ up is _your_ responsibility,” she teases. Makes a soft noise of happiness when the gentle rocking motion he makes proves to her just how much she's driving him up the wall already. She realises she sounds just a little bit smug in the next moment. “Me? I'm just helping.”

 

His breath huffs out as he submits a strangled laugh against her skin. A shiver travels the length of her spine when his voice lowers and his mouth brushes her ear soon after. “More than helping.”

 

“Causing it?” she laughs again, feeling him press against her more insistently. He makes a noise of affirmation that ripples down her spine and makes her belly tingle. “I'm going to need further proof of that.”

 

“Keep your journalism _out_ of the bedroom.”

 

“We're still on the couch,” she points out matter-of-factly. Isn't surprised when his only response to that is to kiss her all over again.

 

She smirks. Circles slowly on his lap until she hits the one spot that makes her toes curl and his breath come out in a jagged rasp. Her hands find the collar of his shirt soon after his hands shift to her waist and grip her tightly. She fumbles with the top button when she wants to unfasten it and kiss him at the same time. The next button goes faster. The next, even more so. His hands fall away from her when she lowers a kiss to the nape of his neck and trails kisses and soft licks up his jawline.

 

Trish leans back. Contemplates him thoughtfully. “God, you're beautiful,” she laughs in delight, skimming over his chest with her fingertips and unbuttoning his shirt further. She's always been straightforward with him. Always a bit on the side of what he calls 'too honest', although she thinks he just says that because she makes him blush. This time is no different. She watches his skin flush under her touch, his mouth quirk into the self-deprecating grimace she knows too well, his eyes roam over everything in the room instead of settling on her. She chases the cobwebs of his thoughts away with another kiss. Trails up to his brow to leave a kiss there as she undoes the last of his shirt's buttons. “You are,” she affirms again, forehead resting against his, “and you're mine.”

 

_That_ breaks the spell, as she knew it would. “Getting possessive, are we?” His tone of voice is lower than what she's used to from him. Oh, there's still wry amusement lurking in its depths. But there is something else, too, and it sends a shiver down her spine in anticipation. He's never sounded quite like this before. Dark and light compete at the edges of her vision. Brighter red blooms into oranges and pinks right before his kiss bruises her mouth. It's hard, sloppy, unruly, _chaotic_ as his tongue slips between her lips and elicts a moan from her throat. His hands slide back under her shirt soon after, tracing over the small of her back before travelling higher. He breaks the kiss long enough to make her gasp for breath. “You're mine too, you know,” he says, hands coming to rest on her back so lightly that she can barely feel them. It doesn't feel possessive when he says it. It just feels like coming home. There is a smile dancing across his lips that she wants to chase as he asks her something else. “Do you trust me?”

 

“What kind of silly question..” she starts, frowning as he muffles a laugh against her skin. Her voice sharpens. “Ward, come on, you know I do.”

 

His hands come to rest on the clasp of her bra. “Do you still?” he asks, tilting his head back so he can see her expression. She nods wordlessly, catching on to his intent. “Are you sure?”

 

“Goddamn it,” she says, frustration lacing her voice, “ _stop_ asking and just get on with it.”

 

“Just get on with it,” he mimics teasingly, exploiting the full scope of how infuriating he can be at times. Echoes one of her favourite movies in the next breath when he breathes out an “as you wish” that's somehow part-belligerent and part-reverent.

 

She finds she can't deal with the latter. Falls against him to claim his lips in a kiss once more. Slips her tongue between his lips, pushes down on him harder than before, elicts halting groans from the back of his throat when her lips and teeth alternate in equal measure. Her hands brush his shoulders and tug at the open shirt insistently. She pulls it further down until she's practically ripping it off.

 

It's all the encouragement he needs to unhook the clasp at her back. She sighs contently as the strapless contraption she forced herself into that morning finally falls away from her skin. (There are a great many things she likes about clothes, but intricate tops worn on weekdays are never going to be a favourite.) His fingertips soar over her newly exposed skin. Stroke her ribcage softly before pulling the bra out from under her shirt and letting it tumble to the floor.

 

His lips are on her skin now before they ghost over her shirt and teasingly trace her body through its thin fabric. She finally manages to get his shirt off now that his hands roam more freely and throws it to the side. Doesn't get a moment to drink him in, not when his lips skim the outline of her breasts and his hands are hot on her skin. He buries his head in the crook of her neck soon after when she rakes her nails over the bare skin of his back. She smiles at that, even when the scars she runs into are dark and red and unwelcoming of her presence.

 

Trish breathes out pink hues in warning, chasing the scars' ghost away to where it can no longer drown her lover in its anguish. _You're dead and gone,_ she snarls at it, claiming his mouth in a searing kiss, _and tonight is for the living_. Tonight is for _them_ , for the _us_ that trembles in the air between them as they both gasp out a breath, and she proves it by enveloping him in all the colours of all the things she feels for him.

 

Breathes love out into his lungs, breathes affection over the scars she can reach, breathes healing over his furrowed brow, breathes protection over his hands that cup her face so gently she thinks she's going to break under their weight, breathes all the ways in which he makes her alive into the air between them. Breathes memories of casual touches into her fingertips, breathes their first kiss into the kiss she gives him now, breathes flowers and jelly donuts and powdered sugar into the taste of her lips on his, breathes them back to the first time in that bar in which she thinks she already knew somehow what he would be to her today.

 

The colours still and fade around her as she reaches the eye of the storm.

 

Ward's hands on her are steadier than ever, pulling her in close to him. His arms envelop her body carefully, though the strength with which he lifts her off his lap and sets her on the couch next to him is a good deal more unexpected. She makes a noise of protest, already halfway into telling him he can't just stop there and leave her hanging like this, already on the way back into his arms before he halts her in her tracks. He rises to his feet. Extends a hand to her.

 

“Don't think I didn't see you eyeballing that bed behind my back,” he says, smirking at her when she rises to her feet as well. Lands a gentle kiss on her brow before capturing her lips in a kiss that's a promise of more. “Come here, beautiful.”

 

She shrieks out joyous surprise when he sweeps her off her feet and lets her tangle her legs around him. His arms are the only thing between her and the ground, though his body moves against hers in a way that leaves her gasping out a choked curse. He laughs at her predicament. It's the most carefree she's ever heard him. The sound of it almost brings tears to her eyes.

 

Then, however, his moves grow more deliberate. He walks her away from the couch effortlessly, rolling his hips upward against her with every step. His muscles ripple under her touch as she clings to him. His body is hot to the touch, so warm that it seeps through the fabric of the few clothes she's still wearing. She hisses out soft encouragement between her teeth. “Bed, now, please,” she whines in his ear when he comes to a halt just outside her bedroom. “Ward, I'm _begging_ you.”

 

“Keep doing that.” He has the audacity to grin at her.

 

“You're _such_ an asshole, oh my _god_ ,” she gripes, the 'god'-part becoming half a moan at the motion he captures her in. Groans out her impatience between breaths even as she can feel him harden between her legs more fully. “I need you,” she keens loudly, not caring who hears her pleasure at finally finally _finally_ engaging in this dance with him. “Take me to bed.”

 

Ward has other plans.

 

He pushes her up against the wall insistently. "You can wait," he tells her when she almost protests the move again, _needing_ to get him to her bed before she falls apart in his arms. She furrows her brow. She doesn't want to wait. Almost tells him so, but the smile that curves at his lips is a little too wicked for her tastes. Her frown is quickly replaced with a delighted smile when he presses flush against her and finally begins to lift her shirt higher haphazardly. Her belly's easily fully exposed, but the curves of her breasts make lifting the shirt up fully a lot harder than it looks. She smirks at him when his best efforts falter in face of the need to hold her up. Asks him if he needs a hand teasingly, shifting in his arms until he lets out a soft curse that tingles through her skin. She steadies herself best she can against him before she tugs her shirt over her head.

 

She feels naked for a moment, silly as that is. But then he looks at her, and there is something in his gaze she can't identify.

 

His grip on her tightens almost painfully as he drinks her in and finally presses soft kisses against her bare shoulders. She sneaks her arms around his neck. Rakes her fingernails through the hair at the nape of his neck and feels him shudder under her touch. She shifts slowly until he fits between her legs perfectly. A gasp escapes her when he rolls his hips up to meet her movement once more. He hides a groan of his own in the urgent kiss he presses to her mouth. His hand skims her belly and her sides before landing around her waist. His other hand, more careful, dances past the underside of her breasts before reaching up to cup one of them firmly in his grasp. She lets out a low, desperate moan that culminates in a plea.

 

"Patience," he murmurs in her ear. Oh, he's enjoying this a little too much if the wicked little smirk tugging at his lips is anything to go by. She shakes her head at him in response. He squeezes her softly. "We've got time, remember?"

 

"Ward, I swear to fucking _god_ ," she hisses back, "if you don't take me to bed right now I _swear_ I'm gonna scream. Screw patience."

 

"I'd rather screw you, and make you scream because of that." His laugh reverberates through her body as he steadies her and moves away from the wall. "That's what you want, right?"

 

"Yes." She closes her eyes when his grip on her tightens just- _so_ and the motion of his slow walk rubs against her just like _that_. She digs her nails into his shoulders. "Oh god yes."

 

She decides he's the best kind of partner to have in this new dance when he sets her down on her feet before the bed despite her low, keening protests telling him to please keep going. He paces her in a way he never paces any of his drinks, prolonging the high of contact that makes her weak at the knees. She gasps out a "you fucking _asshole_ " again when he nips at her throat and slips his thumbs under her waistband. It's too throaty a pronouncement to be a threat, too pleased by far to be an attack, but she remains victorious when the light flutter of her fingers against his stomach makes him shudder. She presses soft, urgent kisses to his jaw while his fingers deftly loosen her waistband. Moves toward him when his hands slip further down, taking her pants downward in a gracefully slow pace, before tightening on her ass and pressing her flush against him. She steps out of the cloth that now pools at her ankles and kicks it to the side impatiently. His smile curves against her cheek when her hands come to rest on his sides.

 

The thin fabric of her underwear is a barrier that doesn't prevent her from sensing his insistent press against her. She revels in the closeness of the feeling, knowing she is at once its instigator and its recipient. Loves the taste of him on her lips, the warm breaths he trails upon her skin, the sensation of his mouth tracing further down her body until it closes around one of her nipples and tugs lightly at it, the nimbleness of his fingers slipping between her skin and panties before he tugs the fabric down and lets it fall to her feet.

 

His mouth travels further downward until he kneels before her. She feels almost shy when he looks at her now, exposed before him as she is. His fingers skim her ribcage briefly. She can't help the tension that floods her body now that he touches all the parts of her that have never been good enough for anyone. She's used to lovers who don't take their time to know her. Ward is something else entirely, and she has to fight not to recoil from it.

 

“Hey,” he says, undoubtedly feeling the way her body has cramped up under his touch, “it's just you and me now.” The kiss he nudges against her belly is tinged with brightest pink. “I love you. I love you.”

 

“I know,” she says, and in that moment she thinks she knows all of it.

 

He kneels before her, this man of hers, and she thinks she can see the universe lurking in his darkened gaze. A blush creeps up and flushes her cheeks brightest red, but she doesn't look away. She can't take her eyes off of him. Featherlight kisses trace her belly's small curve, the slight dips of her hipbones, the soft skin of her inner thighs. She feels as though his hands at the back of her thighs are now the only things that are keeping her upright. Her legs tremble with anticipation.

 

“Is this okay?” he murmurs against her skin, fingers and mouth deliberately loose and light against her. “Are we okay?”

 

“Yes,” she affirms. Whoever she used to be no longer exists in this space between them. This man loves her. All of her, all he has seen, and he is still here with her. It's enough to make her smile. To _permit_ him. “Keep going.”

 

She doesn't need to tell him twice. Senses the exact moment when the energy shifts and his smile turns wicked against her belly. He renews his kisses, trailing new pathways onto her skin that give way to goosebumps in his wake. His fingers curl into her skin. Her legs open to him the more he travels toward her inner thighs.

 

It doesn't take long for him to place a soft kiss between her legs. To chase it with other kisses that coat his lips with the damp warmth of her arousal, that make him hum out a sound of deepest appreciation between her thighs, that elict soft panting noises from her the second he presses down a little harder. His hands steady her as she wobbles on her feet, needing him closer to her in a way that she can only describe as _hunger_.

 

Hunger thrums through her skin. Ravenous, sweet, delicious hunger.

 

“Ward, please, please,” she moans, “ _more_.”

 

He obeys.

 

“Ohhh my..” The rest of her moan comes rushing out in a gasp of delight. She mouths wordless praise to the ceiling now that his soft kisses are slowly being replaced by swirling, lapping, teasing motions with his tongue. Brightest orange floods her vision as she tangles her hand in his hair reflexively. Her breath catches in her throat when he doesn't stop but increases the pressure. His hands sink into her thigh and hip, holding her in place best he can. His tongue curls upward in the next breath, flicking and swirling a steadier pace that's close to driving her up the wall, and the noise she makes only has him gripping hold of her harder in response. “Fuck, Ward, yes,” she whimpers out, feeling her legs turn to jelly under his touch, “right there.”

 

To his credit, he doesn't stop or change pace. She's on the fast track to becoming an incoherent mess under the pressure he exerts with his tongue, tilting her head back and digging her nails into his shoulder as he continues. She can't hold back her smile. Lets it burst forth onto her face even as her back arches under his touch. She's slick with longing for him, opening to him so fully she's starting to feel unsteady on her feet, gasping and laughing out her pleasure at his ministrations. There are fireworks tracking colours through her skin, bright and vibrant and _wanting_ , and a tight coil loosening around them with every move that has the power to set her off.

 

Her legs wobble precariously in the next second as his tongue hits the one spot that makes her toes curl, her brain shortcircuit, and her eyes roll into the back of her head. He seems to notice how unsteady she is now that her hand trembles on his shoulder. His own shoulders gently nudge her. Strong hands clamp down on her thighs and begin to move her backwards. His mouth stays on her through their slow procession to the bed, as though it takes no effort on his part at all to remain between her legs. He's all that holds her up now, that steadies her even as her legs threaten to give out before they make it to the bed, that half-carries her onto the mattress and still kneels before her as if in supplication.

 

She's _gone_ as soon as she hits the soft sheets. His mouth is hot between her legs, his tongue curling and swirling around her centre with a steady pressure, his hands dig into her skin almost painfully. She has toppled backwards onto the mattress entirely, though her hips press upward desperately in the attempt to not lose contact with the one thing in her life that makes her scream. There are starbursts of colours thrumming through her veins, shivers running down her spine into her legs, liquid bolts of lava shooting through her skin and setting it aflame. She's a mess wrapped around him, legs tightening and trapping him for a few moments before the shock of the release opens her to him anew, incoherent noises scraping and thrilling through her throat until her voice grows hoarse and dark with longing.

 

Trish needs him. She _needs_ him. Rakes her hand through his hair and pulls at it none-too-gently until he lifts his head to look at her. Her arms tremble as she tries to push herself upright. She finally succeeds at it, laughing out a shaky breath that has him smiling up at her proudly. “Come here,” she half-slurs, voice still lilting into hoarse satisfaction, “Ward, come here.”

 

The kiss he presses to her lips while he rises to his feet tastes like her, and for a moment she considers flipping him back onto the bed and throwing all their ease and caution to the wind. It evaporates in the next seconds as she drinks him in. Her hands find the dip where his hip meets his belly, ghost over his skin in a way that draws goosebumps forth, pull him closer to her now that she's managed to sit upright fully. Her lips trace discovery onto his body as one of his hands winds into her hair loosely.

 

“You're wearing too much,” she complains, fingers curling around the waistband of his pants. He lets out a surprised laugh when she decides to remedy her own complaint by unbuttoning his pants. She knows he's fine with it when his hand tugs at her hair in short bursts and pauses the further down she drags them. For a moment, she sits back to admire her own work. “That's a bit better.”

 

“A bit, huh?”

 

“I'm not done yet,” she hums contently, wrapping her legs around him and letting her hands travel over him purposefully. Alternates between nails and fingertips when she grazes the one part of his body that's still clothed. He's hard already, bucking into her hand almost involuntarily when she finally rests her fingers atop him. Her kisses themselves grow lazy, trailing from his belly button to her fingertips at a snail's pace, but the fact that she switches from her lips to her tongue and back again in more rapid succession has his breathing go ragged. She smiles before dragging the last barrier between them down and letting it fall to the ground. “Nowhere close to done.”

 

Her hand closes around him in a way that finally drags out a curse and plea from his own lips. Desperation twinges at the tone he takes with her as her grip shifts to something firmer, as she sets a slow pace with her hand that he can't seem to help pushing into, as her lips find this new part of him before her tongue lazily encircles him. His hand tightens in her hair, exercising a gentle pressure she takes as permission to move forward. Elicts a steady stream of groans and halting curses from him as she does just that, both lips and hand enclosing him in languid motions that almost impossibly make her feel wetter just from hearing his reactions.

 

His body coils under her touch in the next breath, stiffens almost imperceptibly under her fingers, and she relinquishes her hold on him in response. “You okay, honey?” The angry red lurks just beneath the surface, shimmering at her in a taunting manner, and she knows then what is going on. “Okay, come here,” she says, scooting backwards on the bed and reaching for him at the same time. “Come here, sweetheart.”

 

Ward's gaze is apprehensive but determined when he meets her eyes. He lowers himself onto the bed haltingly, though he does crawl into her waiting arms the second she touches his hand. “I'm being stupid.” His admission is muffled by how tightly she wraps herself around him. “It's just..”

 

“The ghosts that touch our ribs and want to own our hearts,” she says knowingly. “Remember what you just said to me? When you knelt before me and I felt like running?”

 

“It's just you and me now.”

 

“It's just you and me now, too,” she echoes, threading the knowledge into the love she holds him with. “I am done being haunted.”

 

“So am I,” he breathes into her ear. His hand curls around hers reflexively. “I still want you.” Desperation coats his tongue and turns her insides into jelly. “Need you.”

 

“Then do something about it,” she laughs in the next breath, drawing forth a sharp laugh from him in turn. “I'm all yours.”

 

He raises his head. Drinks her in even as fear lurks at the corners of his eyes. “Mine,” he confirms, then, and the red shatters under their touches even as it attempts to gain one last foothold in him. “If you're sure..”

 

"Hey," she says. Seeks out his uncertain eyes. Holds their gaze until the sense of flight fades away from them. Holds his hand until the red dissipates from his skin. Needs to say this once again and then another thousand times until the knowledge settles in his bones and thrums through his blood with the same steady pace it has in hers. "I love you."

 

"God only knows why." His murmur is soft on her skin as he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek. She smiles when his fingers thread through her hair and tug lightly at the strands that spill over his skin.

 

" _I_ know why," she hums now that his kisses travel over her skin once more and his legs tangle with her own. Gasps against his lips when one of his hands leaves her hair and comes to rest between her legs. His smile is seven different ways of delighted now, amusement dancing just out of her reach when his fingers curve against her in a motion that's insistence and longing rolled into one presence that makes her legs spread just a little wider. His hand stills against the warm coil of longing that's settled between her thighs. She lets out a small huff of annoyance when he seems content to just rest there. Tilts her hips against his touch until she sees his eyes darken and the noise that escapes his own throat is part-curse and part-reverence.

 

The air is cold on her skin when he shifts his weight off her and comes to rest on his side next to her. One hand never leaves her hair, tilting her head back further to give him the access to her throat that she's thinking about revoking now that his breath becomes a ghost on her jawline and the searing kiss he leaves just below her earlobe alone is enough to make her toes curl with wild need.

 

She can feel him watching her when his fingers between her legs begin their slow dance. Pink hues of affection seep into his steady blue presence beside her, tinging his eyes with gentle warmth that makes her heart catch in her throat. She feels utterly naked under his gaze for the first time now, as though the innermost part of her is unravelling under the deliberate combination of his gaze and his fingers. The lazy circling motions he makes are too gentle at first, like feathers rustling in a strong breeze, and she's already begging more of it impatiently in a way that makes him laugh.

 

Still, he listens to her. He _always_ does.

 

Her voice catches on her pleas now that his gaze, too, travels downward. “Fuck,” she breathes out into the space between them. It's not a curse, not really, not when it tumbles off her lips with the grace of something sacred. His fingers hesitate. “I need you,” she groans out, arching against his fingers just to recreate the sort of friction she needs. Gasps when he picks the movement up again faster and steadier than before. She knows her eyes are wild and unfocused, as unsteady as her voice when it threatens to break any second now, but her sudden vice-like grip on his hand is purposeful. “Ward, stop, I want you, I want you.”

 

“Double message,” he huffs out, though his fingers still their movements and come to rest on her thigh. “What do you want?”

 

“God, that really was unclear huh?” she laughs, feeling the haze of pleasure lift briefly from her brain and render her coherent once more. She shifts onto her side moments later to look at him. Lets her own hand wander over his body until there can be no mistaking what she wants. “I need you inside of me. Please.” She's not above begging with this man, not above making his eyes light up and letting his hands pull her closer to him. “Ward..”

 

“There's nowhere I'd rather be.” He confesses the truth of these words to her skin as he turns onto his back and pulls her close. Tattoos them across her lips, her cheeks, her neck. Breathes them into her one at a time until she thinks she would believe _anything_ from him when said in that voice. She doesn't relinquish her grasp, doesn't stop the experimental strokes and touches that make his breath come out in a groan and stutter, doesn't hold anything back from him. “Trish.. for the love of..”

 

She straddles him in the next second, shifting into a seated position that has him smiling up at her and brushing her hair back from her face. He is the one pleading now, voice unwinding with every kiss she presses to his skin, hands wavering above her hips reverently before coming to rest on their curves, the low and comforting cadence of his rasps lodging into her chest until her heart feels fit to burst. Her name tumbles over his lips once, twice, as she rolls her hips slowly before letting her slick folds graze his tip.

 

Longing coats her tongue with moans and jagged breaths when he takes her movement as an invitation. He pushes into her slightly, elicting a whimper from her throat that she's never heard herself make before. He stills briefly at the sound and the sensation of being enveloped by her. She can't help the throaty curse that escapes her. Slides further down onto him, wet and warm and wanting with a thrill that runs through every fibre of her being, gasping out a breath when he moves up to meet her.

 

Her hands tangle with his own blindly. She can't tear her gaze away from his face, not when he's looking at her like this is the first time he's ever seen the sun rise. His fingers interlock tightly with hers. In any other, it would be a demand for ownership. In him, it is pure wanton _need_ that demands to be close to her _._ Her breath hitches on the implication. Catches in her throat when the colours of sunrise envelope her with every move he makes. His hips tilt upward without warning and she swears this dawn may contain a multitude of stars within its reverence.

 

“Jesus christ,” he breathes out, head tilting back.

 

She finds herself echoing that sentiment as she grows fully accustomed to the new feeling that's him being inside her. She shifts atop him tentatively, marvelling as he somehow seems to find the willpower in himself to let her be and not move a muscle himself. There's a tight leash of control lurking in his gaze that she wants to undo. Wants to chase it into the night until it unravels before her.

 

Trish doesn't have to wait that long before his control begins to fray. All it takes is for her to start moving, still clutching his hands in her own, at the languid and circling pace she has perfected for herself. She's slow with him at first, drawing forth a shuddering gasp when she slides further down onto him and then lazily moves up again. She encircles him, envelopes him, tightens around him.

 

A kaleidoscope of colours rushes out to meet her when she lets go of his hands and rests her own upon his chest. Her nails dig into the skin just above his heart at the onslaught, feeling nothing but Ward around her and inside her in a way that leaves her breathless. The rush of it makes her pick up the pace. There's nothing lazy about her motions now that she feels swept up by the tidal wave of blue that crashes into her over and over.

 

She loves him most like this: hair mussed, eyes dark and wild, mouth opening only to release sounds and almost-words she cannot identify, muscles tightening visibly with his movements, his warm body wrapping around her and driving into her with every breath. Her movements grow a little more erratic, a little more uncontrolled, now that the last vestiges of his control are shattering underneath her as his hips start to shift and move against her more insistently.

 

His hands come to rest on her thighs just as she collapses against him, head coming to rest on his chest, hair fanning out over his skin. “So good,” she gasps, electricity shooting through her body when he begins to dictate their movements. “Feels so good.”

 

“C'mere,” he murmurs, shifting one arm to her waist and pulling her tightly against him. She's a mess against him now that his pace goes back to languid, drawing out every inch of feeling inside her, turning her incoherent with need. He answers her keening sounds and grinding motions with laughter and a kiss, sweeping her up and seating her upright against him. “C'mere, baby.”

 

They're face-to-face now, flush with wanting, gasping need and longing and ecstasy into each other's mouths. She shifts in his arms until her legs are wrapped around him so tightly that he groans out a soft expletive. This, more than anything, makes her smile. He unwinds before her eyes, features softening before he nuzzles kisses against her skin, tight hold on her loosening as his hands skim her sides.

 

It's not long before he wraps his arms around her body again, encouraged by the way she keeps moving against him now. A deep flush rises inside her and colours her skin golden pink in the light. He murmurs a “beautiful” into her ear that makes her shiver in delight. She trails kisses onto all the parts of him she can reach, watching in fascination as dark strands of his hair brush and tangle into her blonde, raking her nails across his skin as he keeps the same pace that's about to drive her spare.

 

“Please,” she finds herself whispering onto his skin. His arms wrap more tightly around her in response as he moves up into her in a way that makes her next plea come out in a shudder and a gasp. She doesn't know what she's pleading for. Doesn't know what she wants him to do that he's not already doing. “Please,” she says again, drawing out the sound in his ear, “please.”

 

He doesn't ask what she means. His hand tilts her head back by her hair, elicting a sharp noise of pleasure from her as he tugs at it none too gently. Reverence coats his gaze as he searches her face. He seems to find what he's looking for as the quiet “please” she breathes out next has him stilling his movements inside her entirely. Her legs tremble slightly, wanting to keep moving even when his arm wraps around her hips to keep her in place atop him.

 

Just as she wants to say that this is not what she meant, just as she wants to plead with him to please move and don't stop don't stop _don't stop_ , just as she thinks she can no longer bear to feel him in and around her and _not_ have him set her a maddening pace that's always purposefully on the side of too damn slow.. he moves anew.

 

His hands tighten around her, his arms come up to carry her, his body is all muscles and weight as he grabs hold of her and tumbles them both sideways before she can react. He grips her so tightly she can hardly breathe, flipping her onto her back so casually that it seems as though it takes no effort at all. He falls away from her briefly as they fall back onto the bed in a new space to adjust to. The small break in contact before their bodies realign has her yearning loudly for more in a way that makes him chuckle with laughter appreciatively. She's never been the quiet kind of woman, always vocal in demands and needs, and he meets her wishes in a way that leaves her breathless. He's still laughing as he enters her anew, a smile curving against her skin before he kisses her. She keens soft longing into his mouth when he pauses briefly above her. Her tongue encircles his lazily and draws forth a low cry from him. It's this that gets him moving again, emboldened by the way her hips move up to meet him, encouraged by the wanton noise she makes the second he thrusts into her.

 

His pace is different now and it makes all her pleas give way to approval. She tangles her desperate “please” with soft hisses of “yes” momentarily at the change from agonisingly slow to the more rapid motions that leave her slick with longing for him. He rocks against her so that her hips angle _just right_ , brushing up against her continuously with a gentle pressure that makes her bite her lip to prevent her garbled sounds of _please yes more don't stop_ from spilling out onto his skin, leaving her breathless and _wanting_ underneath him so much so that she can't help but pull him against her as his moves go from the lazy cadence that left her pleading to the quickening impetus that leaves her _begging_.

 

She's weightless beneath him, her curves wrapping around his sharper angles, his mouth finding all the places on her skin that dip to accommodate him, the fullness between her legs no longer something she can bear to be without. Her back arches as his tongue lazily encircles her nipple before his teeth graze her skin and his hands dig into her hips almost painfully. His presence threatens to overwhelm her now that he moves inside her less gently than before. She's all sharp gasps and short puffs of breath when her hands scramble to find _anything_ to hold onto now that he's no longer pacing her in the languid fashion she's come to know so well. Settles for digging her nails into his skin as the bed underneath her feels as though it's fallen away and left her airborne to his touch.

 

It only serves to encourage him. His lips find the pulse point on her neck with ease, pushing and pressuring it teasingly until her own lips graze his neck in a way that makes him shudder. Her hand tangles in his hair in an attempt to pull him closer. He exhales a groan that reverberates through her ear as her nails trail down his spine. She melts under him with soft moans and jagged gasps when his hand grips her thigh and holds her in place as her hips buck upward under his onslaught.

 

Heat coils and unfurls in her belly the tighter he holds her, the harder he drives into her, the more his jagged breaths trace affection on her skin. So close. _So close._ She arches into his touch with wild abandon as her breath catches in her own throat and finally escapes her lips in strangled cries. Her legs begin to quiver as warm tingles shoot up and down her spine at the steady pace he keeps. Then, he collides with her _just so_. Thrusts into her _just right_. A stream of curses and prayers wrap around her brain rapturously as the rest of her shatters in his arms. She's trembling as she comes apart, begging incoherence against his skin, gasping delight into his mouth before breaking away from him and falling apart in the storm that overwhelms her. She cries out in bliss, high-pitched noises escaping her as she falls against him. He holds still for her, forehead brushing against hers, darkened eyes searching her face and finding ecstasy.

 

She clings to him. Moves against him the only way she knows how, frenzied with the thrill of belonging as she is, wanting to drive him over the edge and feel that volatile intensity of his scatter into her. She's haphazard with her movements, as shaking and trembling as she remains, but then he moves with her again and so does the earth around her. Colours begin their swirl around them, pinks and oranges entangling with brighter yellows and blues, purple hues chasing the red away, blinding white buzzing through her now that his hand finds hers and his breath comes out in short huffs. His fingers squeeze hers until it hurts before he lets go and grips her hips once more. Stars splay out before her when her gaze locks onto his.

 

Trish reaches up and kisses him.

 

It's his undoing, and the world falls away from her grasp entirely when he breaks. Blue pushes into her and fills up all the empty spaces she has cultivated inside herself. Pink blossoms forth from the spaces she has forgotten, the spaces that were never hers, the spaces she wants to hide. She welcomes him into all of them as he collapses upon her with a groan.

 

There is sunlight all around them, warm and tangible, slipping and weaving into the night she knows is still lurking outside. He is so bright within her, pulsing and scattering like smaller starbursts. She's weightless and weighted, soaring and grounded, dreaming and waking in equal measure. She blinks the sunlight away until the dim lighting in the room takes hold of her senses anew.

 

Trish belongs in this space with him. Wraps her arms around him and tangles her legs over his in a possessive manner he has previously claimed he'll never tire of. Threads her fingers through his hair when he shudders and splays his fingers out loosely over her body.

 

“I love you,” she sighs out happily, almost singing the words softly in his ear. His blue rocks her gently and stays with her even as he slips out of her in the next breath. Her voice threatens to break. A tear slips past her control, uninvited and strange. “So, so much.”

 

“And I you.”

 

Her skin grows damp as his voice breaks on the words. His tears are less strange to her, as though they are an extension of all she feels at this one moment coming to life in his voice and eyes. She welcomes them into her arms. Welcomes him against her skin, in all the parts of her that come alive around him, and prays for the night to hold them. She lets him weep in this moment of beauty. Brushes a soft kiss against his brow before letting her arms tighten around him.

 

_Sweetheart_.

 

_Darling_.

 

_Lover mine._

 

The words pass unspoken between them.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter with some guest appearances, at long last, and the plot thickens..

She wakes to warmth and golden sunlight streaming through her windows. Wakes to an arm draped across her, a body pressed against her, a head resting on her chest. His breath is hot on her skin. The sheets are tangled somewhere at their feet.

 

Trish lets out a soft sigh and curls around him reflexively. Folds herself into his presence while kissing the top of his head. Her fingers tangle in his hair almost of their own accord now. She knows it will wake him. She's never been good at being the only one who's awake, though, and he's slept in her bed enough to know that by now.

 

She doesn't need to wait long before he rumbles out a “hmm?” that sounds more asleep than awake.

 

“Morning,” she thrills quietly, pressing another kiss into his hair. “Hi, love.”

 

“Mm,” he mumbles. His hand clutches at her waist more firmly for a second as he shifts slightly in her arms. Lets out a deep sigh that travels across her bare skin and makes her shiver. “What time is it?”

 

“No idea,” she says softly, staring up at the ceiling. Can't stop the smile from breaking out on her face. She claps a hand over her eyes when the smile evolves into a full-blown laugh that reverberates around the room. “Ward?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Why didn't we do this sooner?”

 

He huffs out a breath that tickles on her neck. “Did. Sleep in the same bed. Before.” He's virtually monosyllabic, clutching at her waist as though it's his lifeline. “Took it easy.”

 

“Took it easy,” she echoes, pinching the bridge of her nose briefly. “Not what I meant.”

 

She can _feel_ his smile touch the nape of her neck before he buries his head in her hair. Her free hand drops away from her face and lands on his arm, pulling at him slightly to shift his weight. He mumbles something unintelligible and tangles his legs around hers even more fully in response. His breath is warm on her neck and ear. She hums happily when he presses a kiss to her cheek shortly after he shifts his weight off her a little.

 

“Do you regret it?” he asks, hand dancing lightly across her waist before coming to rest on the curve of her hip. He sounds a little more awake now, though his movements are still slower than she's used to. Curiosity enters his gaze when he props his head up on his other hand to look at her. “Waiting, I mean?”

 

“Not regret.” She shakes her head at that. “I don't think I could regret anything about it if I tried. However..” She smirks as she turns toward him. Extracts her other hand from underneath him successfully, wincing as sharp tingles and a dull numbness start to compete in her arm. “If we hadn't waited this long, we could've had this really amazing thing between us more often by now.”

 

“Really amazing, huh?” He chuckles at that. Plants a brief kiss on her lips before pressing his forehead against hers. Her eyes flutter shut as he holds her in that moment, enveloped by warmth and the gentle pink tones of morning. “We've got plenty of time to catch up.. in mid-air or on the ground.”

 

“Mid-air?”

 

He lets out a soft laugh. “You made us float last night.”

 

Her eyes fly open at that announcement. “I did _not_ make us float!” she says, frowning at him now that he's withdrawn from her again and is looking down at her with something akin to amusement. “I think I'd remember–” Trish trails off mid-sentence as the exact memories of last night begin to flood her brain. Crystallise out into fragments of tangled limbs, fluttering feelings in her belly, kisses that make her toes curl in pleasure even now, the sound of his halting moans mingling with her gasps, the sense of being utterly weightless, the bed falling away underneath her... “Oh.”

 

“Your face just went through an entire journey,” he sniggers before his amusement gives way to a full belly laugh that makes him collapse onto his back. This time, she's the one to prop her head up on one hand to get a better look at him. Thinks she loves him most like this, when his eyes are crinkled in amusement and he's laughing at something she's done or said. He chokes out a compliment between his laughter that makes her smile back hesitantly. “You're.. amazing..”

 

“You're not mad?”

 

“Mad?” His laughter dies away as he frowns at her. “Why would I be mad?”

 

“Apart from the fact that I made us fly with powers that I apparently _still_ don't have any control over?” She takes a deep breath. Feels tears come to her eyes, which she desperately tries to blink back. “Apart from the fact that I could've killed you?”

 

“Hey, hey,” he interrupts, tone softening, “we're all right. I'm okay. Come here. C'mere,” he mumbles, pulling at her with too-gentle hands and a too-understanding voice that might be enough to break her. She lets herself collapse into his open arms. Rests her head on his chest only to hear his heartbeat thrum a steady pace that feels like it's calling her home. “It didn't feel wrong, you know.” His voice is husky as his hands brush through her hair. “It might be a crazy weird ability you've got, but it doesn't feel bad. Felt safe.”

 

“Or you might just be a bit of a masochist,” she huffs out before curling her hand around his biceps. “I could've seriously hurt you, Ward. You _know_ what I did to that guy.”

 

His hands still their movement on her hair. “I trust you,” he says, and for a moment it sounds like _I love you_. She smiles despite herself. “I'll prove it to you, too.”

 

Before she can ask what he means, his hands slip down her back and he's kissing her so forcefully she gasps out a breath into his mouth. It only serves to encourage him. Pleasure ripples through her as his hands and mouth begin to explore her body anew, as if he hasn't spent most of the night wrapped up in her already. There is something insatiable about the way he kisses her even now, tongue roaming freely, hands travelling up and down her body, short gasps escaping him as she tangles herself around him and kisses back.

 

She loves him like this. Gasps her appreciation out between breaths. Trish laughs when he doesn't let up on his kisses, even when he muffles half the sweet things she tries to say to him that way. The world falls away from her when he laughs into her mouth and threads his fingers through her hair.

 

“Would you look at that,” he says proudly, “I think we're floating again.”

 

She blinks. Her hand tumbles into empty space when she attempts to feel the bed underneath her. The sun's rays are brighter now, unhindered by the things that usually mute their appearance in her bed. The world spins around her when she realises he's not joking. A jolt of shock runs through her body.

 

They're really in mid-air.

 

Or, well, they _were_.

 

She crashes back down onto the bed rather unceremoniously. Bounces off the mattress just a little, as the last taunting reminder that she really does not have everything perfectly under control just yet.

 

Ward isn't that lucky.

 

He's flung off her bodily, hovering in mid-air a good second longer before being dropped onto the floor with a loud crash. It's big enough a crash to make the painting on the wall shake and her bed tremble.

 

“Oh my god!” Her hands fly to her mouth as she sits bolt upright. “Ward!”

 

“I'm okay!” he shouts in a panicked sort of tone that's decidedly _not_ okay. There's a rather long pause before he speaks again. “Nothing's broken!”

 

Trish scrambles toward the edge of the bed and peers down at his sprawled-out form on the floor. Is relieved to find that he does look more-or-less okay, if a little shaken by the sudden unceremonial drop he just experienced. “Are you _sure_ you're okay?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at the way he winces when he sits up. “I'm _so_ sorry, oh my god!”

 

He starts to laugh. “At least we know that you can defend yourself for sure now.”

 

“This isn't funny.”

 

He only laughs harder.

 

“Okay, that's it, I think you landed on your head,” she snorts, finally starting to giggle herself as she's treated to the sight of a totally naked man howling with laughter on her bedroom floor. She tilts her head appreciatively. “I want to make it up to you.”

 

“I am _not_ getting back up on the bed.”

 

She slips off the bed in reply. “How's this?”

 

Ward simply smiles back.

 

*****

 

“Hit me.”

 

“What? No!”

 

Jessica sighs loudly. Gestures at the vast open space in the abandoned warehouse and the couple of mats and cushions Trish had made her drag in there. “Hit. Me.” Her sister sounds positively impatient. “Let me see what you've got.”

 

“I can't control what I do with it!”

 

“That's why we're here,” says Claire reassuringly. The nurse is looking back and forth between the two sisters with a half-smile on her face. “You need to learn more control. Jessica is not easy to break. Put these two things together, and you have our current situation.”

 

Trish rakes a hand through her hair. Bites her lip. “I hate this idea,” she announces to nobody in particular. “Can't I just.. forget about this?”

 

“If you want the two of us to start floating in mid-air again, sure.” That's Ward, presenting the entire reason why they are here in a single sentence. “I could personally do _without_ the minor heart attack of being dropped out of bed next time.”

 

“ _When_ did you float in mid-air, again?” Jessica's grin is bigger than Trish has ever seen it as she looks Ward up and down with interest. “Talk about an orgasm high..”

 

“Oh my _god_!” Trish bites the words out in an attempt to interrupt the fun Jess is having. It doesn't help that Claire is laughing outright and that Ward is trying to hide the smile that's threatening to break out on his face. She folds her arms as she looks at each of them in turn. Clips out a fast assessment of the people around her. “You're all the worst.”

 

“Do you want to hit me yet?” Her sister grins at her unapologetically.

 

“Getting there.”

 

“Do it. Do it do it do it, come on. You can't hurt me.”

 

“Wanna bet?”

 

Trish clips the words out before she has time to contemplate them. _Reaches_ for Jessica for the first time in forever. Midnight blue washes over her, and with it comes the rolling tide. Purple twinges at the blue fruitlessly, no longer getting a foothold. _Higgins Drive Cobalt Lane_ tug at her mind before releasing again. She dives deeper. Flashes of music curl into her ears before fading out into the sounds of the city's traffic. The Devil's mask gleams in the dim light. A broken bathroom sink and the scent of perfume Trish has not worn in years follow soon after.

 

She clamps down on the scent.

 

Follows it home.

 

The world around her expands into noise.

 

For all of Jessica's defenses, she is wide open to Trish. It doesn't take her long to find the one memory she needs. Jess has flown before. Knows what it feels like to be suspended in mid-air. Knows the weightlessness of it like none other.

 

Trish pulls at the memory.

 

Pushes it into the midnight blue.

 

“Okay, that is not creepy at all,” says a steadily-rising Jessica, looking a little disconcerted at being lifted into the air. “Did you guys realise her eyes actually shift colour when she does that?”

 

Ward's sound of affirmation at her back surprises Trish. “Really?” she asks, making Jessica pitch forward precariously through her slight loss of focus. Jess makes an affronted noise that sounds rather like an angry cat. “You didn't say anything about that.”

 

“In the grand scheme of things, it didn't seem as important.”

 

“I think it's cool,” comments Claire, peering at Trish's face more closely. “You might want to wear sunglasses out in public, though, just in case you ever run into anyone who makes your eyes turn a really weird colour.”

 

“Duly noted.”

 

“Try to hit me instead of just making me..”

 

“The Incredible Floating Jones?” Ward's suggestion has Jessica swearing up a storm. He makes an exasperated sound in the back of his throat at that. “Trish, will you just hit her already? Please?”

 

“Oh f–”

 

Ward's suggestion makes Trish's focus slip. She drops Jessica onto the floor unceremoniously, face first and legs tangling into a heap, eliciting a sharp squeak of surprise from the woman in question.

 

“Try again.”

 

“Claire,” says Ward, admiring, “you are a sadist.”

 

“I prefer the term practical.”

 

Trish rolls her shoulders back. Tilts her head. Squints at Jessica, who's currently sitting up and massaging her forehead. Breathes in the same midnight blue that's every square inch of her sister, breathes out the Devil's brand of red, focuses in on her sister's unruly dark hair and grey scarf.

 

_Pushes._

 

“Oh my god!” Claire's hands fly to her mouth in shock when Jessica skids back several feet before crashing into the far-end wall. “Did you mean to..?” She catches Trish's smile. “Of course you did.”

 

“I'm okay!” Jess holds up a shaking hand as she sits upright. “Nothing's broken. You pack a megapunch, though.”

 

Trish preens at that praise. “Yes I do,” she thrills, fighting to keep the grin off her face. “Still want me to hit you?”

 

“No.”

 

“It doesn't work anyway,” says Claire thoughtfully. “You seem to control what you're doing now. There was nothing accidental about this, right?”

 

“Nope, full control.” Trish nods proudly. “Karen helped me a bit with that. I'm getting better at managing it with Danny's techniques, too.”

 

“Recap.” Claire holds up both hands. “You're perfectly in control. The only times you have not been in control are when..?”

 

“During the attack,” she sums up, “and during physical intimacy with this lovely man right here.” She gestures at Ward. “Why?”

 

“Distress and pleasure.”

 

“Makes sense,” says Jessica, at the same time Ward barks out a “what?”.

 

“Long explanation short: you are in control until you experience a great emotion that sends you into some form of overdrive. During the attack, you were scared and angry – right?” At Trish's nod, Claire continues: “Your panic and your rage began to push out at your attacker in the only form of fight left to it. Your new abilities manifested because of that and killed him to take away the source of that overdrive feeling in an attempt to take back control.”

 

“With you so far.”

 

“During your happy coffee times with Mr Meachum over here,” grins Claire, “your system goes into overdrive for a different reason. It uses levitation as a way to manifest probably because you feel like you're on cloud nine.”

 

“Can it hurt him?”

 

“Not likely.”

 

“If this is you being a sadist again..” warns Ward, sounding none-too-comforted at Claire's reassurance.

 

“Trish recognises you as safe. You're probably the safest out of all of us. Maybe even the only one who can talk her down in one of her frenzied states.” Claire shrugs. “The only downside is that she will need to learn to control that more, if your story's anything to go by.”

 

“Downside?” Jessica has rejoined them, limping slightly. “I'm sorry, doesn't that just mean more sex for them as they go about figuring it out? How is _that_ a downside? ”

 

“Jessica!”

 

“Jones, for fuck's sake!”

 

Claire just hums appreciatively in reply.

 

*****

 

A week passes, and Trish is learning control in haphazard short bursts and pauses. She's toppled to the floor herself twice now. Managed to hold Ward up in a more-or-less impossible position until her control gave out and he crashed back onto her bed in appreciative laughter. She's getting better at it, even when they've commandeered the floor in Ward's living room for any real experimentation since the last time she dropped off the bed. They haven't made it to his bed at all yet. Ward's convinced they're working their way up to it, but she rather likes the unconventional arrangement as it is.

 

Trish has taken to camping out at his place altogether now that she's come to realise that her space no longer really feels like her own. She supposes it's the latent reaction to the attack and all the other crap that's gone down. Ward's taken to her invasion with bemused expressions and continuous griping about the many things she's buying to spruce the space up. (She'd been too appalled to talk when she had figured out he did not own proper handsoap. She'd thrilled a “soap bars do not count!” at him, and proceeded to buy just about anything in justification of her invasion of his minimalist furniture. Ward has yet to recover from the appearance of several fluffy rugs on the floor.)

 

She is somewhere at the halfway point in her epic flip-TV-channels-at-sub-lightspeed adventure in Ward's bed when her phone buzzes next to her. The caller prefers to remain anonymous, or so the screen tells her. She lets it sit. One buzz. Two buzzes.

 

Her curiosity wins out, in the end, as the persistent caller had probably known it would.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Miss Walker?” The unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line is low but melodic in her ear, lodging itself in her brain in a quiet manner. “Patricia Jane Walker?”

 

“Yes? Who is this?” she clips into the phone, unnerved by the use of her middle name.

 

“We have a mutual friend in Karen Page,” replies the man, sounding wholly unperturbed by her tone. “Call me Micro.”

 

“The dogwalker's source.” It's not a question. Trish shakes her head and pulls her legs up under her comfortably. Leans back into the cushions she made Ward get for his horrid couch. “I didn't expect to hear from you personally. Karen made it sound like you are quite the recluse.”

 

“Dogwalker, huh.” The man sounds almost amused at that. “Let's just say that I was.. am.. intrigued.. by your recent state of being. It's not every day that an untrained and unprepared woman survives combat enhancers that have since altered and rewired her brain permanently with a single dosage, after all. From the sound of it, IGH made a mistake with you when they had you injected with Rand's experiment on top of that. A mistake I know they intended to rectify, to the great personal detriment of your attacker.”

 

Her insides go cold at his words. “IGH injected me?”

 

“Paid hit. The dosage was meant to kill you. Instead, it assimilated into something else.”

 

“The psychic stuff.”

 

“Right.”

 

He sounds doubtful. _Too_ doubtful. Trish takes a deep breath. _Extends_ into the man's voice. He's a sea of greenest grass subjected to early morning dew. The steady rattle of fingers on a computer's keyboard. The numbers 1 and 0 flashing and repeating across her brain in various configurations. A Fleetwood Mac song softly playing in the background of children's laughter. A red balloon floating across an open sky.

 

“You're one of the best hackers in the world. Your wife's name is Sarah.” Her lips tingle with a kiss's pressure when the scent of summer rain curls into her nostrils. She smiles despite her apprehension, understanding just how much the man on the other end of the line is a family man through and through. “You love Sarah so much that you always say your love for her is bigger than the Big Bang itself. You have a son and daughter, just like Frank Castle used to,” she murmurs into the phone. “You like early mornings and puzzles that involve numbers.” She laughs, then, as another image floats across her mind briefly. “And you're just as scared of clowns as I am. It is nice to meet you, _David_.”

 

A long silence follows her words. If it was not for the man's sharp intakes of breath on the other end of the line, she would believe he had simply walked away from the phone. As it stands, it seems to her as though Frank Castle's main source of intelligence suddenly found himself facing something he had not foreseen.

 

“Holy shit, ma'am,” laughs Micro nervously, finally confirming her thoughts, “you sound midway between sweet party trick and the scariest person I have ever had the pleasure of speaking on the phone with.”

 

She laughs down the phone in reply, sensing the genuine respect lurking underneath the words he expresses. “Serves you right for referring to information that you should not have had, given all of my attempts to hide my MRI scan results,” she remarks sharply. Shifts their conversation back on topic with more questions. “Why would IGH inject me now, though? Why wait so long to have me killed?”

 

“You've been asking a lot of questions. Assimilating a lot of information about their dealings. Miss Page would not know half the stuff she does if it was not for you and the lawyer you are both friends with. They know the three of you run a real risk of exposing them.”

 

“So why not go after Karen and Marci, too?”

 

“Miss Page is better protected than she knows. The lawyer's involvement is peripheral at best, given how all of the information she has access to directly comes from Rand Enterprises and she is bound by her company's integrity to not reveal personal client information. It is the common assumption within IGH that your boyfriend is the real threat instead of that lawyer, which I believe is why they attempted that shoddy murder on you in your apartment while Mr Meachum was also present within. In an ideal world, they would have found a way to pin your murder on him.”

 

“And thus ensuring their survival by systematically silencing the only people who could expose their dealings. Got it.” Trish rakes a hand through her hair. Sighs into the phone. “I thought the injection might not be related to them, that maybe it was some other ploy to get at Jessica or something else.”

 

“A valid option, given Miss Jones's career choices.” Micro does not sound surprised in the slightest at her train of thought. She supposes it's unsettling for most people to speak with him, given how much he seems to know about their lives, but she curiously finds she doesn't mind so much at all. Perhaps it's a testament to how little secrets she actually keeps. “IGH will likely keep on coming at you, Miss Walker. They have currently become quite interested in how your powers manifest and if they can replicate this for others. However, their research will be hampered by the organisation Miss Page told me is already known to all of you as The Hand.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“You don't say.”

 

“How come?”

 

“The Hand believes that your unique abilities and your continued association with the Immortal Iron Fist – their description, not mine – will pose a serious threat to the Black Sky.”

 

“The Black Sky died on a New York rooftop a while ago.” The Devil of Hell's Kitchen had finally confessed to that much, after many evasive talks, or so Jessica had revealed one night after a few drinks too many. “As far as I understand it, she was never under The Hand's control.”

 

“The security cameras in the building located at 560 West 44th Street tell me a different story. The woman formerly known as Elektra Natchios is the current vessel of the Black Sky and she is alive and well inside of that place.”

 

“That is the location for Midland Circle's main office,” recalls Trish, having seen the address on a million files by now. “If what you say is true..”

 

“We're all in even deeper shit than before?” He almost sounds amused. “You're welcome, Miss Walker. Make good use of what I have told you, now. I will be in touch.”

 

The call disconnects.

 

*****

 

“You know the _weirdest_ people, Page.”

 

Jessica's voice over the phone sounds almost admiring. To say that Trish had called an emergency meeting following Micro's call would be an overstatement. She'd called Karen first to let her know the man had been in touch. Called Ward straight after, needing him to know the full scope of what they are going to be dealing with. Jessica's the third on Trish's list of people to inform, and likely the most important.

 

“Micro's not that weird. Just extremely paranoid.” Karen smiles a soft smile she reserves for the people closest to her. “He likes you, Jess. Says you're a good detective.”

 

“Great! That will really help me when I am about to be skewered by Saint Matthew's ex, drawn and quartered by a bunch of ninjas, and court-martialed by a bunch of hyped-up soldiers.”

 

“Court-martialed is the worst you could come up with?” Ward asks distractedly, leafing through the paperwork Karen brought with her. “I have never been more scared in my life.”

 

“Can it, Meachum.”

 

Ward looks up, affronted. “Just because you're too chickenshit to say scalped, torn limb from limb, murdered in our beds, dropped into a minefield, set on fire..” he trails off, glaring at the phone. “Nothing fucking _happens_ during a court-martial!”

 

“Can we please get back to the part where Elektra's alive and probably wants to kill us?” asks Trish, voice sharpening slightly. “You two can argue semantics about murder later.”

 

“Do you think it's related to your dream? The one with the crows?”

 

“What dream?” Karen looks back and forth between corporeal sister and phone-presence sister with interest. “Trish..?”

 

“I had a string of these weird dreams lately. Always the same. It starts with a crow sitting on my balcony. It takes flight and that's when I hear this.. this massive rustling of feathered wings. The sky is red as blood, but then the crows start streaming in. They cover everything. The ground, the buildings, the sky itself. Swarm the city with their presence. It always sounds like a battlecry.”

 

“Sounds like a pretty accurate depiction of a Black Sky to me,” mutters Ward ominously to Trish's right, papers strewn across his lap and another mug of coffee in his hands. “Pity it doesn't tell us how to kill it. I still think chopping her head off is our best bet.”

 

“Could be a premonition. We still don't know the full extent of your abilities, Trish.” Karen's wrapped in cautious greens as she takes the proffered cup of coffee from Ward and frowns thoughtfully. She ignores the man's more violent solution to the problem entirely. “I think we need to get ready for this any which way we can. Micro gave us her current location. We've got more puzzle pieces than we ever did before. We need to put it all together before they get the jump on us.”

 

“Let me guess,” drawls Jess's voice from the phone, “I'm going to be the one who has to inform Matty of this.”

 

Trish bites her tongue to stop herself from commenting on the nickname Jess just expressed so flippantly. Not for the first time, she wonders what exactly is going on between her sister and the lawyer other than a whole lot of bad jokes only they seem to find funny. “Do you want to?” she hedges all the same, not sure about the scope of Jess's exact relationship with the Devil. “I could get Danny or Luke to do it, too, but Danny's a bit more tactless and Luke hasn't heard the full Elektra story the way you have..”

 

“That's okay. I'll just tie him up before I tell him.”

 

“Whatever gave you the impression we needed to know that detail?” asks Ward, frowning in disgust.

 

“Guys, Black Sky, emergency, The Hand,” interrupts Karen, halting any sort of argument between Jessica and Ward in its tracks. She looks questioningly at Trish. “Did Micro say anything about IGH?”

 

“The Hand is apparently preventing them from doing anything because The Hand believes I am a threat to the Black Sky and need to be eliminated rather than researched.”

 

“So, we worry about The Hand first and about IGH later. Got it.”

 

“Page..”

 

“Frank's working the IGH angle,” replies Karen, oblivious to the rather cagey tone of Ward's voice. “I got Foggy to help him out, though Foggy still jumps a foot into the air every time Frank calls him 'counselor', and I think Marci is pulling rank with government officials in an attempt to wheedle more information out of them. Micro isn't letting up on IGH, either. We have that area covered.” She tucks a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “ _We_ need to worry about The Hand. If that dream is a premonition, we're all in deep trouble.”

 

Trish thinks they might not know the half of it.

 

*****   
  


“Something's coming!”

 

“What?”

 

“I don't know, I don't know,” she rambles, pulling the curtains in his living room shut with one hand, “and I don't want to find out. I can't explain it!”

 

“Start by explaining why you're closing the curtains in the middle of the day?” Ward sounds almost exasperated with her, eyeing her warily as she actually attempts to barricade the larger window by kicking his only armchair into place in front of it. “Or why you're moving all my furniture, for that matter?”

 

Trish almost growls in frustration. “You know what it is about minimalist furniture?” she asks rhetorically, looking around the room for anything else she can use. “You pretty much sign your death warrant on the day you put it in your house. Nothing to hide behind or under or in. Nothing to barricade anything with. It's just one big space of nothing.” She gestures empathically at the room around them. “I am going to _die_ in here. Should've stayed at my place.”

 

“Don't be so melodramatic.”

 

“Excuse me, who flipped the hell out over that spider last week? Not me.”

 

“It moved too fast,” he grumbles, not acknowledging the fact that he had woken her up with his shrieking. He huffs out another breath as she picks up the table lamp they both consider the ugliest thing in the room. “Set that down and _talk_ to me, goddamnit!”

 

“Something's,” she grunts out, having moved on to trying to move the only bookcase in the room, “coming.”

 

His hands close around hers. His breath is on her hair. “You said that already,” he says, sounding calmer than she ever feels lately. He holds her in place along with the bookcase. “Trish, just talk to me. Please.”

 

Tears threaten to rise as she lets out a shuddering breath. She blinks them away angrily, frustrated at how easy it is for her to start crying these days. “I had another dream,” she whispers, “only it wasn't a dream. I saw it when I was in the shower.” She relinquishes her hold on the bookcase, but he doesn't let go of her hands. Wet strands of her hair soak his shirt as she rests her head against his chest. “Blood in the water. Blood in the air. The wind sounded like a million feathers rustling and beating the noise of war into my ears. Death was on the tip of my tongue.”

 

“Now I know why you're dripping wet and half-naked while barricading my apartment like one of those paranoid apocalypse preppers,” he remarks tiredly, “but that still doesn't explain why you're acting on the vision now when you've had the same dream every night for the past month.”

 

“That's just it!” She whirls around and jabs his chest twice with her finger. “ _That_ was a dream. _This_ is waking life. This is serious, Ward!”

 

The worried lines in his face soften as he brushes her hair out of her face. “I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to her brow, “I know. Panic isn't going to solve this, though.”

 

“I could start by getting dressed,” she says, hoisting her towel up and wrapping it tighter around herself. “After that, I need to call Jessica.”

 

“Call her first,” he says decisively.

 

“You do realise it's actually cold here, right?”

 

“I'll keep you warm.”

 

“Incorrigible,” she huffs out, smiling up at him, knowing exactly what he wants to do to take her mind off the things that freak her out. Lets her towel slip back down just a little. “You know.. I think Jessica can wait.”

 

“Sense of impending doom gone?”

 

She tilts her head. “No.” Her hands come up to rest on his neck, pulling him toward her until his breath ghosts over her lips. Her towel drops to the floor and pools at her feet. “But if the world ends now, there's nothing I'd rather be doing.”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect there will be yelling once this longest chapter so far is done...

The end of the world takes another five days to actually happen.

 

It's Karen who first notices something's amiss. Or, rather, it's actually Mitchell Ellison's uncanny radar for strange weather that made the reporter sit up and take note of the goings-on. Trish knows it only took a single treatise on ball lightning appearing in five different locations around New York to convince Karen that something has gone horribly wrong. Ellison's paranoia and shouts of “fire and brimstone, Page!” had done all the rest.

 

Marci and Foggy are conveniently out of the city on an actual romantic getaway, but that didn't prevent the blonde lawyer from calling Trish in a panic during lunch yesterday because they narrowly avoided a hurricane on the freeway. Foggy's convinced that it's punishment for attempting to leave Hell's Kitchen during a crisis, while Marci takes it as an incentive to move even farther away from the city than she was originally planning to do. (The woman had admitted very quietly over the phone that she wasn't going to raise a child in the city. Trish thinks the idea of Marci with a baby is as terrifying as it is adorable.)

 

It's all of the goings-on combined that derail Trish's own plans for the fifth day entirely. She can't sit on her hands and pretend nothing's the matter when there are freak storms raging all over the state of New York. She can't prepare anything for her next show when there are rainbows spilling forth from her fingers that turn to grey ash the second they become airborne. There's a jittery sort of nervousness that has taken hold of her body. She's got issues keeping food down. Even more issues falling asleep that not even the comfort of lying in Ward's arms can help.

 

When she calls Jessica that morning, her worst fears are confirmed.

 

“The Hand is mobilising.” Her sister's voice is a good deal breathier, shakier, than Trish has ever heard it. Her heart squeezes in her chest at the sound. “There's all kinds of activity going on in and around Midland Circle's office, too. No sign of Elektra yet. Matt's still convinced her survival isn't true, but even he can't deny the return of a bunch of ninjas.”

 

“Where are you?” asks Trish sharply.

 

“Technically? In an air vent in the building right next to their office. Danny is camping out next to me.”

 

“Oh my god..”

 

“Luke and Colleen are uprooting the last of The Hand's tentacles in Harlem with Misty's help as we speak. That's the only part of the morning that's going well, if Danny's smile is anything to go by.” Her sister's hushed tones seep into Trish's ear and curl up inside her skin. She clings to them like a lifeline. Every word from Jessica is assurance that they are not as dead as Trish fears they are. “I don't really know where Matt is but I—”

 

The line goes dead abruptly.

 

“Jess? Jessica?” Trish barks her sister's name into the receiver half a dozen times, sounding more and more panicked with every second that passes. Her last whisper into the phone sounds small and uncertain, back to using the only nickname she knows her sister hates more than sobriety. “Jessi?”

 

There's no answer.

 

Trish tosses the phone down onto her couch with a grimace. Rakes her hand through her hair and takes a shaky, shuddering breath. Inhales and exhales noisily a few more times, pushing the tears that threaten to spill forth back down expertly. Blinks rapidly to get her panicked tears back under control.

 

She's not so lucky in pushing down the rest.

 

“Ward!”

 

She manages to shriek out his name before the black overtakes her. There's a drumming sound in her ears that edges closer and closer to the parts of her brain that are dark and coiled firmly around the spaces that make her feel most like a person. There's an abyss waiting for her on the other side of fear. Trish dances around it in her mind, twirling and twisting away from it in a way that reminds her of all the ballet lessons her mother made her take.

 

Mother.

 

_Oh, honey, are you really going to eat that? Of course it hurts, that's showbiz! What do you mean you're tired? You ungrateful brat, after all I've done... Control yourself in public! No tears! What do you mean, you want to go to school? You've got to practice for the next episodes, doll, you've got no time for maths. Patsy Walker doesn't need to learn to do anything except learn to do as she's told!_

 

She cries out as the memories flood her. Doubles over in pain at the sharp phantom jabs in her stomach, the scratch of nails across her skin, the throbbing aches on her neck and temple. All of her injuries are old. Mother took care to never make them too visible. Make-up did the rest. Wouldn't do to have a beat-up Patsy Walker make the headlines.

 

Of course, then she'd started setting fire to things. Started fighting back and breaking loose. Flames curl at her fingertips even now. Scorch the couch, the rug, the coffee table. They don't hurt her. They simply dance over her skin, licking at her fingertips, warming the palms of her hands, sparking and flaring at will, leaping out at the world with crackling heat. Fire's always come easily to her. Danger's always been second nature.

 

The flames fizzle out. She sputters as water sprays into her face. The cool droplets trickle down her skin and wash the dark out of her. She shakes her head. Gasps out a breath as the pain in her bones fades, the ache that blossomed onto her skin vanishes, the hurt inside of her falls away. Trish flexes her fingers, now void of the warmth.

 

“There you go,” says Ward's voice from above her, “easy now. Don't set the house on fire.”

 

“Haha, very funny,” she grumbles, coughing out tendrils of smoke. Her eyes land on the scorched rug. “Fuck.”

 

He frowns down at her. “I told you having a light-coloured rug is problematic,” he says conversationally, reaching down to help her get to her feet. His hands support her arms as she rises unsteadily. “Mind filling me in on what the hell just happened?”

 

Reality comes crashing in as she shakes the last of her mother out of her head. She recalls the dark collapsing in upon her. Remembers Jessica's abrupt disappearance over the phone seconds later. There's no time to waste. No time to just talk things over.

 

She stumbles toward the hallway awkwardly, not feeling totally stable on her own two feet just yet. Almost bumps into the chair she keeps on hand as a quick way to store whichever bag she's using at present. She rushes to the door once she finds her balance. Is out of it and sprinting toward the stairwell in seconds.

 

“Trish! Trish!” Ward's footsteps thunder behind her. He sounds terribly put out at having to run after her. “Wait!”

 

She doesn't reply. Leaps down the stairs two at a time, using the banister as an extra stabiliser to prevent herself from tumbling down altogether. Not for the first time, she curses the city's need to build homes sky-high. The elevator in this building is even slower, though, so that would not be much help.

 

Ward's slightly longer legs and what she thinks is some kind of frustrated momentum catch up with her before long. His hand's on her elbow before she knows it, spinning her around just as she steps off another flight of stairs, almost slamming her into the wall as she doesn't halt immediately. An angry red blush has spread across his cheeks and his hair looks terribly dishevelled. Butterflies flutter nervously against her ribcage and stomach before she squashes them down expertly.

 

She still tries to get past him, shoving and pushing her way to the next flight of stairs despite his grip on her arm turning vice-like and his face contorting in annoyance. Only belatedly does she realise he's also clutching two sets of keys and a pair of white sneakers in his hands.

 

“Barefoot, hysterical, transportationless,” he sums up now that he's caught her glance at the shoes. “That's you right now.”

 

“Goddamn it, Ward!” She tears herself loose from his grasp completely. Turns and thunders down the next flight of stairs before he can react. “I don't, I can't – I don't have _time_ for this!”

 

“At least put on these fucking shoes!” He's shouting now too, voice echoing through the stairwell. “Or is that too much to ask now that you're apparently a superhero on a mission?”

 

She comes to a halt on the next staircase. “It's Jessica! She's in trouble.” She clips the words out, pushing them forth at him with all the urgency she can muster. “I'll put the shoes on when we're in the car!”

 

“We? We?!” He almost roars it at her. “ _We_ are not cut out for this! We are not the Defenders of New York City! Did you forget that Jessica almost _died_ last time something big happened?”

 

“I didn't forget! That's why I'm going out there now! I can't stand by and watch it all fall down. I have these visions for a reason. I can sense this for a reason. I'm going out there _for a reason_!”

 

“What if you die?”

 

“I'd rather die out there than have to live with myself if I choose to do nothing now.”

 

On that note, she turns on her heel and marches down the stairs. It doesn't take long before she hears Ward's footsteps thunder down the stairs after her. He falls into step with her. Holds out the keys to her apartment, but doesn't relinquish the keys to the car. She knows better than to argue with that. Ward never likes being driven around the city when he's a bundle of nerves. Better to let him feel like he still has a modicum of control over how the rest of the day is going to go.

 

“Where's Danny?” he asks, suddenly, just as they reach the final staircase. “Is he..?”

 

“He was sitting next to Jess when I lost contact with her.”

 

“Fuck.” He clips the word out as they enter the small parking garage. Trish hides a smile as he actually speeds up his pace to get to the car faster. Ward may say he doesn't care about what Danny does and does not do, but when worst comes to worst Ward's always the second line of defense the curly-haired ninja has. (Colleen will always be the first, fierce as she is, and Claire is convinced that Jeri Hogarth may be the third.) This time is no different. “I'm going to try and call him.”

 

Trish actually stops at that. “Why didn't _I_ think of doing that?” She looks down at her bare feet, suddenly disgusted with herself. “And why did I leave the apartment without putting shoes on?”

 

He holds the white shoes out to her wordlessly as they reach the car. She takes them gladly, not even caring that they don't particularly match the neat blue blouse or grey slacks she's wearing. Ward grabs his phone the second his hand is free, calling Danny even as he unlocks the car door and gets behind the steering wheel. He clips the phone into the hands-free car kit Trish uses more than she cares to admit. She's always babbling away a mile a minute on the way to work, alternating between calling Marci to get her take on that morning's news and calling ahead to discuss some last-minute stuff for work. The car's her second office, or so it feels sometimes, which becomes apparent to her once again when she actually needs to clear a stack of paperwork off the passenger's seat before she can even get in the car.

 

“He's not answering, is he?” she asks when Ward taps the phone in annoyance. At the shake of his head, she groans. “Just.. drive. They were camping out in the building next to the Midland Circle office.”

 

“You're kidding.”

 

“Oh god, I wish I was. I don't even know how they wound up there, but at least they are coordinating their best efforts with each other now. Luke's cleaning up Harlem alongside Misty and Colleen as we speak. That part seemed to be going well..”

 

“What is the bet that Harlem will implode before the day is done?” Ward's more cynical than Trish by far, electing to always assume the worst from any situation that involves the Defenders, and even now he wryly smiles as he says it. “It would help if they informed us of their idiotic plans before going out and getting themselves killed, too.”

 

Trish hums her assent to that as he drives out of the garage. Finds herself blinking against the sight of the street and sky. A short prayer tumbles over her lips before she can stop it. Her hand finds Ward's and squeezes it with all the power she can muster. His fingers tangle briefly with hers before she withdraws again.

 

“This complete messed-up time warp of a day is pissing me the hell off,” mutters Ward under his breath, actually halting the car in its tracks as he peers up at the sky himself. “Tell me something. Am I going insane, or did we just go from bright open skies upstairs to this fucking downpour downstairs in the space of less than ten minutes?”

 

“If you're going insane, I am too.” She shivers as the first droplets of rain fall onto the windshield. The sky overhead is already shifting into greys and midnight blues, obscuring the light of the sun, bringing a torrent of rain cascading down onto the city. “We need to go find Jess and Danny..”

 

“And save the world.” He laughs nervously at that. His hand finds her hair and tangles in it briefly, pulling at the strands softly in a way that makes her smile. The gesture is so purely _Ward_ that it takes her breath away. “Stay alive, Hellcat.”

 

“You too, jellyboo.”

 

Ward makes a noise of disgust as he begins to drive into the rain. Her soft laughter fills the car up briefly, setting it alight with flashes of pink and peach, before it fizzles out again. She's got a whole list of nicknames he can't stand and she plans to use every single one of them on him in future. (She's pretty sure he keeps a list just like hers, too, though he has not elected to share any of them with her just yet.)

 

Driving in this particular weather has never been one of her favourite pastimes. Trish busies herself with putting on the shoes Ward gave her in an attempt to ignore the rain and wind that are beating against the windows. The air around them seems to grow darker by the second, as though the sun has simply given up for the day and has let the night take over early.

 

Even the people out on the streets seem to be aware that this particular weather is more foreboding than the rare blizzard in March. Trish watches them flee into stores, hide out best they can underneath porches and other shelters, run toward safety any which way possible. Cars and taxis move at a slower pace than usual, too, despite the age-old conviction that New York City doesn't slow down for anyone. Some have stopped altogether, parking by the side of the road in a disorganised fashion.

 

Nothing's been the same since The Incident that brought alien life crashing down upon Manhattan. The city's more fearful now, no matter how much they try to hide it behind their landmarks and their general bluster. Trish can see it in the reactions to this new threat all around her. Most New Yorkers actively move away from danger.

 

She doesn't know what it says about her that she wants to find the eye of the storm and halt it in its tracks. Doesn't know what it says about Ward that he keeps driving headlong into danger despite all his misgivings. Ward navigates the city with the same reckless pace she always drives with, foregoing caution and swerving the car into the smallest openings without a care. This is their equivalent of a death wish, honed by years of devil-may-care outlets and bad parenting, and Trish doesn't think they're ever going to shake loose from that entirely.

 

“Goddamn piece of crap with your junkyard SUV,” snarls Ward at one of the slowest-moving vehicles in front of them right now, “I'm pretty damn sure this isn't a fucking safari park so _move_.”

 

“Don't think she can hear you.”

 

“It's a he, and yes he fucking well can now,” bites Ward out, hammering away on the car claxon until the SUV finally changes lanes. “Fucking fifteen miles an hour, hon, can you believe it?”

 

Trish smirks at him. “Safari parks have a speed limit of five miles an hour.”

 

“Even worse. Did you know that–”

 

Whatever Ward meant to say is cut off abruptly by the most obnoxious telephone jingle Trish has ever heard in her life. Ward suppresses a groan and blindly slams the 'take call' button on the phone's screen as fast as he can. He refuses to take his eyes off the road as he snaps out a “yeah?”.

 

“H-hello?” The open line crackles with some kind of static, but Trish can make out a greeting between the screeches and white noise all the same. “Hello?”

 

“Danny?”

 

“Ward!” Danny's voice reverberates loudly through the car's interior. Trish cringes at the noise, praying that someday soon someone is going to teach Danny about the merits of controlling his volume when he gets excited or panicked. “I'm so glad you picked up!”

 

“We've been trying to reach you for the past ten minutes now,” replies Ward, parking the car by the side of the road again. Trish hisses in annoyance at that until she catches the uncertain look that crosses his face. “Where are you?”

 

“Uhm, I'm outside, on the street, uh, in front of Midland Circle,” comes the halting reply, “and uh... there's lots of..” A loud screeching noise on Danny's side of the line interrupts his speech momentarily. “–crazy out here. Luke showed up, though. And Colleen.”

 

“Danny, where's Jessica?”

 

“Oh, hi, Trish,” chirps Danny, sounding thoroughly unperturbed at her presence, “I haven't seen her but Matt seems to think she's still in the building. We're gonna try and get her out as soon as we.. uhh.. get past the veritable army?”

 

Ward closes his eyes in silent prayer.

 

Trish closes hers seconds later. Counts to ten. She opens them again to find that Ward's eyes are still closed. Knowing him, he's probably counting to a hundred right now before he finds the space inside him that allows him to reply without yelling down the phone at Danny.

 

“What are you doing right now?” asks Trish, needing to get a lay of the land before they drive headlong into danger later. “What can you see?”

 

“I'm hiding behind a dumpster. Luke is shielding me right now, but I think that I need to go help him soon. I just, uh, I don't know what to do exactly. There are so many of them. So many – not just The Hand's forces, but also private security from Midland Circle and some soldiers? – but most of them seem to be waiting for something rather than attacking. We're totally outnumbered either way.”

 

“You've beaten worse odds,” says Ward now, clearly remembering the last time the Defenders faced off with The Hand. “We're on our way there. Just hang on in there. You'll get help.”

 

“It's not going to be enough! I can try to fight them, sure, but they'll just keep on coming.”

 

Sometimes, Trish forgets how young Danny is. Forgets that he had been the one to see Jess fall, forgets that he is still the one picking up the pieces after Luke's nightmares, forgets that he had singlehandedly struck back at The Hand and slept for a week following the huge expense of energy it had cost him. Listening to him now, however, she realises how much it costs Danny and the rest of them to simply be out there again and put themselves on the line like this.

 

“Listen to me, you can do this!” She knows Jess proclaims to hate her pep talks, but Danny usually takes to them like no tomorrow. “Do you remember the feinting tricks I taught you?” At Danny's affirmation, she breathes a sigh of relief. “Great. What you need to do is the following..”

 

Trish launches into a rather longwinded explanation of what she thinks is the best way to handle the crisis so far. She doesn't know how effective it will be, but Danny is humming agreement and exclamations of relief down the phone so she knows it does succeed in distracting him from the 'we are all going to die'-ledge she thinks the warrior teetered on prior to the call. She pulls krav maga movements out of her memory as she talks, interspersing them with Karen's tendency to use everything around her as a weapon and Marci's take-no-shit-just-go-for-the-painful-hit attitude that have taught her how to stay alive in a city that wants to kill.

 

At the end of her ramble, she turns to Ward. “Did I miss anything? Leave anything out?” She's a little bit breathless and so worried for Jess that her heart feels like it's going to leap out of her throat. She needs Ward to make sense of all the things she's said and forgotten. “Anything to add?”

 

"Danny, you've got a glowing fist that can cause a lot of damage. Use it." Ward's advice is more clipped than Trish's convoluted explanations of how exactly to punch your way through a crowd of people. She bites her lip in an attempt not to laugh as the exasperated tone he always reserves for Danny expands into the next words he speaks. "I did _not_ suffer through you telling me you're the magical Iron Fist – shut up, _nobody's_ immortal – twenty times in a row only to have you wimp out on actually using it in a crisis right now. You wanted to be a superhero, that's great. Now, you actually get to prove it again. Go fight some ninjas."

 

Trish snorts out a rather unladylike laugh when he mouths 'I cannot believe I just said that' at her. Danny, on his part, is sputtering half-hearted objections through the phone. She can tell they're still the nervous babble of someone who knows they're about to be on the losing end of a battle. Her fingers find the hem of her shirt and furl around the fabric gently. She needs to have something in her hands. Something to act as a shield against the ongoing storm. Something to counter the terror that's rushing out at her from the looming darkness in front of them.

 

Rain pours down the car windows with the steady ticking and trickling of heaven's onslaught on the city. Something is trying to claw its way out of her throat. She feels the rough scrape of the dark, the blood pounding and rushing to meet it, the scratch rippling through her body like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. She coughs. Tries to clear her lungs. The car's gone quiet except for the noise and static that crackles at them over the phone. She hates waiting. Hates not being sure. Hates how she's always on the sidelines of every important fight, even when the thought of being in one has the tendency to bring her nerves crashing down around her ears.

 

A faint drumming noise reaches their ears from over the phone. It almost sounds like the rumble of an earthquake, though the earth itself feels as though it recoils from the city at present. Seconds later, a very high-pitched whining noise pierces the air.

 

“What the hell is that?” barks Ward at the phone, wincing and leaning away from the speaker as much as possible. “Danny, talk to me!”

 

"You were right. It's Elektra." Danny's voice ripples through the speaker anxiously, straining to make itself heard over the noise. "Matt's a wreck. Luke is assaulting a bunch of those fucking ninjas as we speak while shouting Matt off the ledge.” The curly-haired warrior suddenly sounds so very small. “I think I need to go and see if Colleen is all right.. I don't know what else to do.”

 

Trish raises an eyebrow at the phone. "Start with putting a dollar in the swear jar," she reinforces in Jess's absence. (After a long shouting match with Matt that had ended up with fifty of Matt's dollars landing in the swear jar, the private investigator had taken to the thing like no tomorrow and kept reminding everyone of its existence a little too often.) She tries not to think of Jess in danger. Tries not to freak out over the fact that none of the other Defenders have seen neither hide nor hair from her since the fight started. Tries not to worry, even though there are tears in her eyes and she swallows her panic half a dozen times before she's even capable of replying with anything else. "Danny, just stay put okay? We're on our way. Just.. keep Elektra busy?"

 

"With what?”

 

"You've got a glowing fist," repeats Ward slowly, deliberately, menacingly. "Figure. It. Out."

 

Before Danny can reply, he's already hit the 'end call'-button. The car goes quiet abruptly. She turns her head toward Ward. Catches the angry huff of breath that leaves Ward's chest, the tightness of his fingers gripping the steering wheel with all their might, the strain around his eyes that says he's about three seconds away from an internal shouting match. Catches the half-prayer tumbling over his lips, not in submission to her this time but in supplication to whichever god is going to listen. Her fingers find his knuckles. Her lips find the angry, terrified pulse in his neck and press down on it as gently as her own fear allows her to. His hands open and unclench from the wheel, grasping at her fingers with all the fervour of a man who's trying to be brave.

 

Trish doesn't mention she thinks he's being too hard on Danny. Ward gets like this when he is desperately trying to hold himself together. She knows everything about this terrifies him. Murky yellow fear swirls in the pit of her own stomach briefly, though it is a poor reflection of the sweeping fear that currently curves his mouth downward. She tries to push it down. Takes another deep breath and looks away from him.

 

She fixes her eyes on the horizon. Dark is already seeping into her senses. There's the taste of ash on the tip of her tongue. The grey of murky oblivion chatters through her teeth and gums. Her head briefly rests on his shoulder. Wisps of her blonde hair brush over his leather jacket as the sun's very last rays leave the world.

 

“I can't believe we're doing this,” he mutters. “Since when are we the cavalry, again?”

 

“You know they'd be lost without us.”

 

He snorts loudly. Starts to drive again. “You know that sounded suspiciously like 'I am the greatest good they are ever going to have', right?”

 

“Are you paraphrasing _The Incredibles_ in a time of grave danger?”

 

“Maybe?”

 

“ _Impressive_. I knew there was a reason why I fell in love with you.”

 

Their nervous chatter fills the car as they drive headlong into the storm. It doesn't take long before they lay eyes on Midland Circle's towering office and its surrounding utter chaos in the distance. All other cars on the street are moving away from the scene as fast as possible. Trish isn't surprised to see a great many pedestrians do the same.

 

Ward parks the car about three blocks away from danger. Opens the glove compartment and withdraws a gun.

 

“You're not the only one who's prepared,” he comments just when Trish raises her eyebrow at him. “I threw that in there late last night. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

Trish smiles. “You knew we were going to be out here to put an end to all this sooner or later.”

 

“I had a hunch.”

 

“You knew I wanted to help save the world,” she hums happily, grinning in that stupidly happy way he always incites in her. She plants a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

 

He rests his forehead against hers briefly before kissing her in turn. “I simply know better than to argue with this force of nature.” He shoots a quick grin of his own at her before his eyes darken with worry again. “Are you ready?”

 

“No.”

 

She exits the car anyway, before she gets too caught up in her own nerves. It's absolutely no use bothering with an umbrella. The wind's too strong for that, almost blowing her off her feet the second she's out of the car, and she can smell lightning in the air. (Jess always makes fun of her for it, but Trish has a nose for storms.) She's soaked through in a matter of seconds. Shivers as the cold water droplets seep through her blouse.

 

“Here.” Ward drapes his jacket over her shoulders and pushes his sopping wet hair out of his eyes impatiently. His tone brooks no argument. “Put it on.”

 

Trish shrugs into the jacket that's slightly too big for her. Sighs happily when she realises Ward's body warmth still clings to it. “Thanks. Of course, if I die,” she says conversationally, looping her arm through his as they move away from the car, “this jacket is going to be ruined.”

 

“Don't even joke about that,” he groans. “I'd rather walk around naked for the rest of my life than have you die tonight.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Trish.”

 

“What?”

 

“I don't even know what to say to that, you impossible – oh, what the fuck?”

 

Ward screeches to a halt abruptly as a couple of police patrol cars, one armoured truck, and a lone fire truck speed past and come to a halt about a block away from them. Trish can almost see the wheels and cogs turning and spinning away in Ward's head as he turns back and forth between the cars, the trucks, the buildings, and the unmistakable glow of Danny's fist further off in the distance. It seems they are not the only ones rushing toward the centrepoint of the action, though it currently does not look like the new arrivals are going to do much. They just sit there, forming some kind of strange one-sided perimeter around the office block that contains Midland Circle.

 

“Come on.” Trish has spotted a narrow opening on the sidewalk that she prays will lead them around the perimeter into the fray. She tugs on Ward's hand to lead him away from the forming crowd of law enforcement. “Stay close to the wall. I don't know how distracted they are and we do need to get past them somehow.”

 

Despite their best efforts, staying close to the wall does not really help when detective Brett Mahoney is around. They are just about past the second block when he spots them and rushes to head them off. Trish makes an annoyed noise in the back of her throat when he doesn't say anything but simply gestures for them to follow him. She knows him well enough to know that it is not a good idea to do anything other than comply.

 

She spots Misty Knight's curly hair seconds later as they weave and wind their way through a veritable crowd of officers. The woman is seated on the hood of her police car, looking out beyond the makeshift barricade with incredulity written all over her features. She clutches her gun firmly in her left hand. Trish thinks it will always be a little jarring to see the woman with the bionic arm Danny had arranged for her after she'd lost her real one in the battle to save Jessica. Without Misty, Jess probably would not be here. Despite her near-mythic status of heroism in her own corps, Misty still snaps out a resounding “yes?” at Mahoney in the next second as she notices their approach.

 

“Found these two trying to get past the barricade.”

 

“Thank you, Brett,” says Misty distractedly, not even looking into their direction. She waves the detective off moments later with a new request for him to follow up on. “I swear, I don't know why everyone and their mama is so keen on walking straight into that fucked-up circus over there.”

 

“You're planning to do the same,” deadpans Ward seconds later.

 

“It's my job!”

 

“It's our job too.” Trish shrugs as the woman's head finally whips into their direction. “We're all in this boat together.”

 

“You two. Should have known.” Misty sounds almost exasperated now that she lays eyes on Trish and Ward, though there is a telltale relief in the woman's sagging shoulders as well. “Suppose you're here to get your asses into the big superhero brawl, then?”

 

“Wasn't my idea,” drawls Ward, indicating Trish's broad smile with a nod of his head. “I'm just moral back-up.”

 

“A Meachum and morals. _There's_ a combination I never thought I'd see in my lifetime.”

 

“Jeri?”

 

“Ward. Trish.” Hogarth walks up to them briskly and clips out a greeting that sounds almost friendly for the woman's usual doing. “You'd best move into the fray if you have a death wish we can't stop you from fulfilling.”

 

“Why are you even _here_?” asks Ward incredulously instead.

 

Trish finds herself echoing that sentiment. In the time she's gotten to know Jeri Hogarth, it's become quite clear to her that the woman's matter-of-fact approach to life is anything but an act. Hogarth is unshakeable in her resolve to straighten Jessica out, but she would normally think twice about getting this close to the fire that scorches Jess's life on the regular. Marci has a pile of stories about Hogarth verbally tearing people to pieces in the courtroom and out of it, but none of that will serve them well in battle with The Hand.

 

“I'm here to yell at the District Attorney.” Hogarth waves a hand imperiously at the goings-on behind her. “He seems convinced the Defenders are terrorists.”

 

“I'm surprised he can still string a sentence together after Karen tore into him last month.”

 

“Someone needs to hand him a bag.” Ward's voice is oddly wistful. “You're going to punch his teeth out before the night's up.”

 

Hogarth almost smiles at that. Her firm hands grasp Trish and Ward by an arm each and steer them expertly beyond the makeshift barricade. Trish briefly senses lilac and eggplant purple push forth at them before it withdraws again as quickly as it came. “Off with you,” says the woman brusquely. “Ward, try not to die out there. I'd hate to have to arrange all that paperwork at Rand Enterprises.”

 

Ward hides a smile as he nods his head in reply. This is Hogarth all the way, or so Trish has been told: Danny is still convinced that Hogarth is the closest thing Ward's ever had to an older sister, even though the two spend enough time pretending that they cannot stand each other. She shoots the woman a quick smile and reassures her that she'll safeguard Ward's all-important ass, which gains her a snort of appreciation from Hogarth herself and an exasperated “really?” from Misty.

 

“There's an alleyway that leads to a tunnel, or so I was informed,” carries Misty's voice behind them, just loudly enough for them to hear. The woman seems to read Trish's mind once again and she is reminded of just how perceptive the detective can be when the woman speaks her next words. “I believe that's the quickest and safest way to find Jones.”

 

“Make a run for it?”

 

“Yeah.” Trish nods in agreement at Ward's question now that they have both spotted the alleyway between Midland Circle and the next building. It's thankfully not too far away from where they are standing. Trish slides over toward the pavement, hellbent on getting as far away from the open street as possible, while Ward follows in her wake in steps quieter than cat's paws.

 

She glances at the battle that weaves itself around them. There are countless opponents present for the Defenders and Colleen, though they seem to have formed an understanding that lets each of them fight to their own strengths while having each other's back. Ward and Trish slip by unnoticed in the fray, preoccupied as everyone seems to be with the centrepoint of the action. She finds herself strangely relieved at that.

 

Things change when they set off for the alleyway in a powerful sprint. She halts in mid-step and _pushes_ at the murky grey that's now beginning to swarm at them. Gathers it all up best she can and sends it back to where it originated from. She can't say she's surprised to see several of Midland Circle's security detail topple to the ground spontaneously the second her return energy hits its mark. She resumes her run.

 

Her feet pound a fast pace on the pavement. Her hair streams out behind her like a blonde flag, making her an excellent focal point for attack. Something whizzes past her hair. Wind moves past where her head was not a second before. She resists the urge to duck. Resists the urge to run in zigzag motions, too, as she once read that this doesn't help much when you're getting shot at.

 

Ward comes to a halt ahead of her, already at the alleyway entrance, and she sees his face contort into a terrible grimace when he lays eyes on something behind her. She glances back over her shoulder, hair whipping into her face as she does, and smiles in elation when she sees Misty raise a gun in the distance that the detective trains on Trish's pursuers unflinchingly. She keeps running even when she hears the welcome sound of two bodies dropping to the floor shortly after that.

 

“In here, quick,” Ward beckons when she's close enough for him to grab hold off. He pulls her into the alleyway and resumes his breakneck sprint toward the tunnel that's located a few feet into it. She has no choice but to hurtle along with his longer strides. “If we're lucky, they won't follow us!”

 

They do seem to have caught a bit of luck, or so Trish reflects when they finally come to a halt a few steps into the dark tunnel. She can't hear any footsteps following them. Can't make out any energy that's not theirs edging closer toward the tunnel. Breathes a sigh of relief when they appear to be safe for the moment.

 

Ward has already turned and is progressing deeper into the tunnel tentatively. She bites back a complaint about poor lighting as she follows in his footsteps, half-stumbling on the uneven floor that slopes downward and wondering why Ward's steps never change in grace. She's relieved to find that the tunnel's light expands when they round the corner.

 

The building itself seems rough with disuse, scattered graffiti scrawled over its walls and wrappers of all kinds littering the floor. Trish wrinkles her nose at the scent that's part-sewer and part-human. The air down here is heavy with dust and chemicals she can only pray are not hazardous to their health.

 

She shakes her head. It's a funny thing to worry about in the face of danger. Wonders if Jess has a million inconsequential thoughts running through her mind every time she steps out there to save the world, too. Wonders if this is the new normal her brain will get used to one day when the thought of battle no longer sends exhilaration down her spine. She almost prays life will always be like this, even when she's scared of losing the ones she loves in the fray and she can't help but tip headlong into the melee anyway.

 

Ward holds out a hand when the noise of shuffling feet reaches their ears. She stops dead in her tracks. Breathes out half a second later. Moves past Ward's tightly encased blues and reds that swirl into purples and pinks under her touch. Ignores his furious whisper for her to stay put. Moves along the dark and grey of the tunnel toward its next bend instead, squashing down her fear and misgivings when it seems as though something familiar lurks just around the corner.

 

Sunshine yellow smashes through the last of the dark in her line of sight. She almost collapses in relief against the dirty wall, recognising the energy that travels with the brightest colour she knows instantly.

 

A blonde and a dark-haired woman round the corner seconds later and Trish thinks she might yet start to cry while there's a war going on all around her. Her eyes never leave the dark-haired woman's slender form stumbling toward her. Her heart constricts and expands joyfully.

 

_She's alive she's alive she's alive_.

 

Ward, behind her, sounds even more shell-shocked. “Page?”

 

“Jessi?” Trish can't hold back the nickname that tumbles over her lips. She wipes away the lone tear that trickles treacherously over her cheek. “Jessica?”

 

She doesn't stop to take in the surprising sight that's Karen holding Jessica upright any longer. She simply sprints toward the two women as fast as her legs can carry her and wraps her arms so tightly around Jessica that the woman runs a risk of suffocating in her grasp. She inhales the scent of cheap scotch and mint gum before Jess wraps her arms around her waist and sinks into the embrace. She chokes out another sob into the woman's hair, crushing Jess to her as tightly as she can possibly manage.

 

“Are you okay?” Trish pats the dark hair, the slumped shoulders, the scarf that hangs almost undone on Jess's back. Reassures herself that Jess is still breathing with every pat, even when the woman's fatigue is seeping through Trish's bones in great shudders of teal and lilac. “What happened?”

 

Jess groans into her ear. “Fucking IGH assholes happened. Remind me to thank Danny for _fisting_ some of them.” Trish hides a smile in Jess's hair as the woman describes what Danny did. This is Jess all right: slightly crude, matter-of-fact, deadpanning everything as though it's a joke she's tired of before she's even finished telling it. “They knocked me out, put me in the fucking boiler room, separated me from Danny..”

 

“He's all right. Luke and Colleen are outside with him. Misty's here too and so are a whole lot of other people who might level the playing field for you.” Trish directs the last of her words not just at Jessica, but at Karen as well. “And, uh, Matt's here..”

 

The blonde heaves a sigh. “I know, I saw him on the way in. He told me where to find Jess.” Karen doesn't sound too terribly impressed by that. The reason why becomes clear immediately as she keeps talking. “He forgot to mention that they locked the room they put her in.”

 

“How did you get–”

 

“She shot the lock clean off.” Jessica still sounds impressed as she relinquishes her hold on Trish and shoots a quick smile at Karen. “One shot, right?”

 

Karen nods somewhat proudly. “Didn't think that would actually work, but hey... I'm not complaining that it did.” Her smile glitters in the dim light. She turns her attention to Ward now, still smiling like the world is not about to end. “Glad you brought a gun too. We can actually do some damage now.”

 

Ward lets out a long-suffering sigh instead. “Between you and my girlfriend,” he says to Karen, “I _swear_ I have just felt myself age five years in the space of five minutes.”

 

“Would you look at that, you're officially the girlfriend now,” smiles the reporter, elbowing Trish's side gently. Karen shoots Ward a dazzling smile that only serves to make him roll his eyes. “Admit it, you're secretly glad you're not the only rescue party in town.”

 

“If I admitted it, it wouldn't be a secret gladness anymore.”

 

Karen's laugh twinkles through the tunnel softly, sounding almost like the bells Trish hoped to hear on the rooftop every night before Christmas. It's only now that Trish notices the woman's hand is curled firmly around the barrel of a gun the way Ward's is as well. She finds herself wishing she hadn't sold her own, though between her new abilities and her krav maga she probably would not have much use for the weapon as it is.

 

Her breath hitches abruptly in her throat.

 

The dark rushes in around them. She pushes back at it with all her might. Takes the light she feels at having Jessica and Karen by her side, takes the love she holds for Ward, and shoves it at the dark until it abates long enough for her to make sense of the shadows.

 

“Guys..” she breathes the word out, observing the gleam of knives and the dust that coats her lips. “We're not alone anymore.”

 

“Clever girl.” One of the shadows leers at her before solidifying into one of Midland Circle's security guards. “Too bad that won't save you.”

 

“You're trespassing,” remarks Ward calmly from beside Trish. He raises his gun a fraction, readying it but not outright threatening yet. “I suggest you leave.”

 

“So are you, but _you_ can't leave. Not anymore.”

 

“Actually, Rand Enterprises has taken up ownership of this particular building since.. hm.. last week. As its CEO, I stand well within my rights every time I set foot on this property. Need I remind you that your employer's office is next door to this building, or can you find your way back on your own?” Ward's voice solidifies into the unwavering tone of someone who's used to having his every command followed to the letter. He sneers at the security guard with all the contempt the Meachums were once said to harness so well. “Take your ninjas with you as you go, as I do not believe they are in Rand Enterprises's employ any longer either. I have seen to that.”

 

Other shadows coalesce into human shapes at Ward's words. These men are hooded and masked, with only their dark eyes serving as live wires through which their energy expands. Trish was once told that the Devil could not even hear their heartbeats. She thinks that may be an exaggeration, because she can sense them just fine.

 

She does not sense _individuals_ , however, and that fact throws her more than she expected it to. The Hand is a hive mind. It operates with a single purpose and has only one single goal in mind: the dominion over all life. There is no space for anything else. Trish doesn't even remember how often she's heard that in their struggle to beat the organisation back once and for all. This time, this time in which she is staring in the face of five figures and only sensing one figure looking back out at her, she thinks she finally understands.

 

Their blades rise as Karen's gun also rises and points directly at the security guard. “Let us go,” says the blonde. The world tilts away from her in warning. “This is not a request.”

 

“Drop your weapon.”

 

“No.”

 

Ward raises his gun the second Karen's refusal leaves her lips. Jessica balls her fists. Trish finds her fingers shifting into a clawed gesture before she feels the heat of flames embrace her skin. Between the four of them, they can take these few soldiers. Decimate a few more and take them out of the Defenders's crossfire. Trish knows this as intimately as she knows the curve of Ward's smile, the scent of Jess's hair, the gestures Karen makes when enraptured by something new.

 

She knows all of this, but now she also knows they will not have to do so.

 

Something new comes to life in the space behind The Hand's half-dozen men. Or, well, Trish supposes he is not quite _new_. She knows this person, though she has not been near him since her abilities took flight. She inhales a shaky breath as his colours reach her. Navy blue tendrils sweep over the tunnel before embracing Karen's slender frame fleetingly. There is gray pushing out at the edges of the space the man inhabits. Underneath the steel of it all, there is a hush of desert sunrise dancing far below his skin.

 

The sound of a carrousel slowing to a halt. The crash of pennies and dimes tumbling and smashing down onto the floor over, and over, and over again. Gunpowder and coffee permeate the air around her so vividly that she nearly chokes on the scents. Something sweet and foreign coats her tongue before it is replaced by grains of sand.

 

Red bleeds out into the world when a harsh voice rumbles danger into being. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

 

“Who the hell are–?”

 

The lone security guard from Midland Circle comes to realise that he is officially out of his depth and above his pay grade on this half a second too late. There are six quick blasts, one after the other, echoing through the tunnel, twisting in the air before hitting their target. Six bodies hit the floor and don't get up again.

 

The gunman takes a step into the light. A white skull gleams on his chest, his fingers are coiled around a gun, his pace is slow but deliberate. There is warfare in his lungs that scorches the earth he stands on. Trish steadies herself against the feeling of being caught in a sandstorm and quicksand alike.

 

“Frank?”

 

Karen's voice is soft, wondering, reverent, and Trish finds herself stabilising on her feet at the sound. The blonde's energy unfurls in the cramped space, sneaking past the tendrils of navy blue with brightest sunshine yellow, folding around the grey in hues of pink and lilac, before Karen takes a few halting steps forward and stumbles to the man's side with relief dancing happily across her face.

 

Frank Castle almost smiles as his hand brushes the woman's shoulder briefly before they separate again. For a second, Trish swears she sees double. Navy blue and brightest yellow cling to their skin before they fold down into grays and nothing. There is steel in Karen's shoulders and iron in Frank's, making them stand straighter and taller even as angry red and terrifying darkest purple haunt their gazes.

 

_Ma'am_ clings to Karen's heels. A cacophony of sound trembles in the air around Frank, though it finally settles on a _rot in a goddamn jail cell!_ that Trish is certain came from Karen's mouth. An endless string of diners and coffee and needle and thread shift between them with ease before settling into the staccato click of heels on a pavement and the tap-tap-tap of a finger against a mug.

 

“Thanks for the help,” interrupts Jessica, obviously ignoring Karen's closeness to the most murderous vigilante the United States knows by name. “You sticking around?”

 

“Balcony. Third floor. Fight's outside, going to provide some cover.” The man clips the words out in a voice that's almost rough with disuse. “Watch your six.”

 

“I don't speak military.”

 

Frank Castle remains unfazed at Jess's flippant retort. His attention turns to Ward and Trish instead of dignifying the dark-haired Defender with a reply. “You need to find a place to hide. And stay there.”

 

“Not going to happen.” Trish pushes back at him right away, not caring that the man's shoulders tense up at her refusal. “I know for a _fact_ that Karen and Micro told you about my new powers. Ward's got a gun. We can handle ourselves.”

 

The man elects to ignore the first part of her retort, even though she can see something akin to approval flicker in his gaze before his attention turns entirely to Ward. “You know how to use that?” Frank nods at the gun Ward holds loosely by his side. “Ever pulled the trigger on it?”

 

Ward has the audacity to scoff at the questions. “Of course,” he clips out, thoroughly unperturbed by the fact that the man's stare has intensified since it landed on him, “I killed my dad with this.”

 

“Ward, oh my god!” moans Trish, convinced that he's just dug himself an early grave.

 

Jessica is a good deal more practical. “Great, then you can keep _her_ out of trouble.” She nods at Trish quickly and shoots Ward a reluctant half-smile. “Didn't know you had it in you, poster boy for sticks up the ass.”

 

“I have an extra clip for that,” rumbles the Punisher, still eyeing Ward as though he's not sure on what to do with him. “Your dad was scum.”

 

Ward nods in agreement, unfazed at the Punisher's accurate assessment of Harold Meachum. “That's why I killed him. Twice. Technically, he was already dead.” He offers up a nervous laugh as three people stare at him. Trish lets out another soft groan. “It's a long story. I'll take that clip, if that's okay with you.”

 

Frank holds the clip out wordlessly, which is as good a sign of tentative approval as Ward is ever going to get from the man. Ward's fingers barely tremble as he takes the clip and shoves it deep into his pocket. Trish's hand folds around his the second his hand withdraws from his jeans. He squeezes it reassuringly. Warmth seeps back through her skin. She draws his jacket tighter around herself as a particularly cold gust of wind breezes through the tunnel.

 

“We should get back out there,” says Jessica, breaking the tension with an anxious stare at the alleyway that leads back to the fray. “Someone needs to stop Matt from doing something utterly suicidal. Danny and Luke need all the help they're going to get.”

 

“With you on that.” Ward agrees readily, nodding at the woman's words. “Lead the way.”

 

“Karen? Are you coming?” Trish has to ask, even though she thinks she already knows the answer from the way the blonde reporter is currently glancing at the Punisher. “You could always catch up with us..”

 

“No, uh, yeah.” The woman nods distractedly. “I will..”

 

“I'm going upstairs as discussed.” Frank's voice is a quiet rumble now. “Need to set up there before anyone else does.”

 

“I'm coming with you.” Karen's voice is all steel and something unyielding as she stares into Frank Castle's eyes. The set of her jaw is as stubborn as Trish has ever seen it. “We don't know if anyone is still in this building or if they won't come for you when they figure out you're shooting at them from above. You need someone to watch _your_ six.”

 

“No.”

 

“It's either me sitting up on that balcony with you, or me being down there accosted by about a hundred ninjas while I only have two clips for the .380. Your choice.”

 

Frank Castle's hand digs deeply into his pocket and withdraws two more clips. He hands them to Karen silently, folding her hand around them for good measure when it appears she is not going to do more than balance them precariously in one hand. There is a long pause between them. Karen finally turns away, eyes glinting with unshed tears, lip trembling before it sets into resolve.

 

Ward and Jessica have already turned on their heel and are further down the alleyway. Trish lingers, reaching for Karen and squeezing the woman's hand reassuringly. She can't help but shoot an exasperated look at Frank over the blonde's shoulder before she, too, turns to walk away.

 

“Ma'am.” Frank's voice sounds almost desperate as he stumbles over the title he only ever lays at Karen's feet. Karen freezes in her tracks. So does Trish. “Watch my six. Please.”

 

Trish lets go of Karen's hand immediately at those words. Shoves the woman back toward Frank's waiting form gently. “Go.” She smiles at the blonde, who's still blinking in confusion. Nods her approval at Frank now that navy blue tendrils swirl around Karen as the woman takes a few shaky steps toward him. “Thank you both. See you on the other side.”

 

She turns on her heel and rushes to catch up with Ward and Jessica, who're waiting for her at the end of the alley. She doesn't look back to see how Frank and Karen are swallowed back up by the tunnel's darkness. At least one of her friends will be safe tonight. Even if worst comes to worst, she knows Frank Castle will find a way toward a clean escape. She trusts the man that much now.

 

Trish finds she needs every square inch of that trust when she lays eyes on the battlefield for real this time.

 

It's chaos.

 

She tastes it on the air when they step out of the alley. Yellow and blood orange and deepest red contort and twist away from her in the air. Darker, unhinged grey licks at the corners of the colours. The Devil's brighter red streaks across her line of vision before it tumbles down upon the darker ninjas in a maroon crash of judgment. Luke's green and yellow push outward like a battering ram against the coming storm, shielding Colleen's sweeping and arching purples at his back for as long as possible.

 

Danny is the one who takes her breath away. Finally, she understands why Jessica calls him Golden Boy and why even Misty speaks of him with a rare warmth. The young man who currently crashes into the group of ninjas before her is a whirlwind of energy, swirling greens and dancing yellows solidifying into sparks of gold that crackle across the darkened sky in warning. There are at least ten Hand-members around him. Danny burns through them faster than she can blink.

 

“Ward!”

 

The curly-haired warrior crashes into Ward's wiry frame before they can even blink. She smiles when Ward's first instinct is still to hug Danny back with one arm, patting him on the back all the while, even when he is raising his gun in warning at the warriors who are regrouping behind Danny's back.

 

“Hi Danny,” she smiles as Danny releases Ward and kisses her on the cheek haphazardly in the next moment. “Glad to see you.”

 

“No kisses!” hisses Jessica, looking terribly put-out at the way Danny's face just lights up at the sight of her. Trish hides a smile at how exaggerated Jess makes her rebuttal sound. She knows the woman's happy to see Danny again, even when she doesn't say it with so many words. “Where's Matt?”

 

“Trying to get closer to Alexandra.”

 

“Who's Alexandra?”

 

“I'm going to hazard a guess and say that it's the older woman over there in the centre, standing next to what I think is Elektra. She also seems to be dressed like an expensive lampshade?” At Danny's nod, Ward grimaces. “Figured. That is _exactly_ how I expected Midland Circle's CEO to look.”

 

“Leave it to American Psycho over here to recognise his biggest corporate foe in the space of ten seconds,” snorts Jess appreciatively, bumping shoulders with Ward. “Feel like shooting her yet?”

 

“Get me close enough,” is Ward's short reply.

 

Jess's face lights up at that. Trish is somewhat amused to find that the two actually get along best in a crisis, as though it takes the potential end of the world for them to set aside their continuous bickering and work together fully. She waves Jess off when the woman's head turns and her eyes seem to ask for permission to take Ward into battle. Ward himself follows in Jessica's wake more tentatively, being shielded from the worst of the fight rather expertly by her sister's never-ending need to throw punches at whoever gets in their way.

 

Trish, too, begins to move closer to Alexandra. If the woman is as entangled in The Hand and IGH as she suspects, then taking her on and putting her out of commission seems like the smartest idea she's had all day.

 

She snarls as three of The Hand's ninjas think it wise to block her approach. She lashes out at the first with her fists, twists and turns to kick the second down, comes close enough to the third to send him flying back. She turns the weapon she takes from him over in her hands. Flips it to her left hand half a second later before breathing it into the air.

 

She pours herself into the blade. Hones it until it no longer shines silver but blinks purest white instead. Extends the blade into the other blades. Smiles grimly as the warriors closest to her suddenly find their weaponry acting against them. She disarms before she cuts, slicing the blades through thin air and flesh alike. Holds her presence in the blades steady with her mind even as the first thunderclap gunshots begin ringing out from the balcony.

 

Trish expands into a whirlwind when she senses Danny's chi safeguarding her back. Smashes two IGH soldiers into the building's concrete walls. Knocks other fighters off their feet by simply expanding a breath. Scrapes and scratches at the world until it bends to her will.

 

Fighter's relish forms on her face when she realises she can clear Ward's path to Alexandra. Most of the attention has now slipped to Danny and her, especially because Danny's energy keeps streaming toward her and envelopes her in the green-golden twinges of his chi. Her smile is terrible and wicked all at once as she grasps his energy and sends a shockwave through the fast-approaching legion of foot soldiers.

 

“That is enough!”

 

A cultured voice that Trish knows can only belong to Alexandra rises when another push with her mind knocks the woman's bodyguards back several feet. The only thing Trish does not touch – does not _dare_ touch – is the Black Sky itself. Elektra stands by Alexandra's side, looking hauntingly familiar and utterly foreign all at once, clothed in dark and cloaked in nothingness. Trish can't bear to look at her.

 

Alexandra has no problems looking at the most monstrous of all. The woman's mouth curves into a rare smile as she gazes at Elektra's still form. Trish shivers when she realises that Elektra feels _dead_. The only energy that emanates from the woman's form is dark, ruthless, sweeping in its dreaded form. She is the night sky itself, painting New York in all shades of darkness on what should have been a clear summer's day. There is nothing left of the woman that Matt Murdock once loved.

 

“You're goddamn right, that's enough!” Trish retaliates, snarling at Midland Circle's CEO, ignoring the fact that her insides quail at the sight of Elektra. Bares her teeth at Alexandra in warning. “Cease and desist this instant!”

 

“Ah, my darling girl, I have absolutely no intention of doing just that.” Trish decides she _hates_ the woman's laugh when it is coaxed from her lips oh-so-softly. Shivers as the woman's head tilts and her gaze locks onto Trish as though she is observing a micro-organism rather than a human being. “My soldiers were right. You are a true abomination. Your only comfort may be that you will fall under the Black Sky as the rest of these.. warriors.” The woman's voice teems with disgust as she looks at each of them in turn. “Such a ragtag band of _heroes_. No matter. You will fall.”

 

“Stop talking.” Ward's voice is calm, but underneath it lies a fury greater than any kind of darkness Elektra could possibly summon. “The only _abomination_ here is what you and your people do. We must never bring our loved ones back from the dead.”

 

“Yes, I understand that this did not go so well for your father.” The woman nods. “Ward Meachum, is it not?”

 

Ward inclines his head once.

 

“Mr Meachum, forgive me, I am aware that you do not know the distinction. Your father was a true abomination to me as well. My condolences.” It is clear to all who hear the exchange that Alexandra means not a single word of the kindness that passes her lips. “The Black Sky is something different altogether. She can topple kingdoms. Break the wheel upon which the world turns. The world has not seen a true Black Sky since the earliest dawn of the age of man.”

 

“It should've stayed prehistoric!” Jessica, ever-poignant, shouts it from the midst of the guards she's currently accosted by. “Take your Jurassic Park freakshow somewhere else.”

 

“Elektra, my dear heart..”

 

“Not another fucking word,” snarls Ward, raising his gun and aiming it at the woman's head unflinchingly. He watches the Black Sky like a hawk now that Elektra's hair rustles in the wind and the woman's head tilts just a fraction in response to Alexandra's words. “Whatever it is you were about to say.. _don't_.”

 

The woman pays his warning no heed. She spreads her arms wide instead, beckoning Elektra to her with gentle smiles and gesturing hands. The Black Sky merely tilts its head the other way at her in response. Alexandra does not seem to care that the woman's response is lacklustre at best, for she issues a command sweet as sugared tea and cotton candy bought at the fair. Trish shudders at the sound.

 

“Black Sky, sweetling, bring–”

 

A shot rings out.

 

Alexandra falls. Her words lie forgotten in her mouth.

 

“I told you,” says Ward calmly, lowering the gun as he speaks, “I didn't want to hear another word.”

 

The world around them roars to life into a cacophony of noise and colours. Trish sways on the spot as the first wave of panic strikes her in a way that pierces her skin, runs slippery slopes of ice into her bloodstream, makes her legs shake with the desire to run. She isn't surprised when she sees some of Midland Circle's employees attempt to do just that. Their allegiance to the cause died with their CEO.

 

She wishes The Hand would be the same way.

 

Instead, she watches as another takes Alexandra's place. This woman is smaller than the CEO of Midland Circle, yet somehow far more imposing in towering degrees of black and white. She is void of colour altogether. Trish shakes her head in confusion. Reaches out even further in an attempt to get to know more about her.

 

“That will not work on me.”

 

The woman's voice carries itself to Trish's ears even in the din of the fight. Trish blinks owlishly as she realises the woman is addressing her directly. Ward realises it at the same time. He looks at her briefly before he steps into the path between Trish and the woman who can only be one of The Hand's leaders. His gaze is calmer and steadier than Trish feels by far.

 

The Iron Fist lands himself by her side soon after, clearly having overheard the exchange if the frown on his face is anything to go by.

 

“Madame Gao.”

 

Danny sounds almost deferential toward the elderly woman who has become visible upon Alexandra's collapse to the ground. His tone is one of grudging respect, though Trish can hear the apprehension lurking in the edges of his tone. Briefly, the light of the Fist flickers and fades before surging upward again. Even from this distance, Trish can see the woman's keen eyes gleam as she takes in the chaos that rages around them. A soft smile plays around her lips briefly before her hands fold onto the cane that had been loosely in her grip before. She taps it to the ground once, twice, thrice.

 

“Gao.”

 

The Devil is less deferential by far, spitting out the name without the title, weaving and twisting through the woman's forces with anger streaking red in his wake. He does not pause after that simple acknowledgement of her presence. He is a blur in the corner of Trish's eye. She can taste his rage. Feel his barely contained fear spill out onto the streets. A part of him never leaves Elektra alone for too long, constantly looking over at her to ensure himself of the fact that his dead lover truly walks the earth.

 

Elektra is the root cause of all the Devil's demons that lurk in the shadows of the man's red gaze. Try as he might, the man never dances too close to the woman he once loved. It seems as though the battle itself is designed to keep lover from lover, or perhaps this design is of the Devil's own making because he cannot face the woman without falling apart.

 

Madame Gao knows this, too. She comes to stand next to Elektra with a peaceful smile on her face. “Alexandra was a fool. A useful fool, but a fool nonetheless.” The woman's voice is utterly calm, as though she is discussing the weather rather than death and the end of the world. “She did not understand the full power of the Black Sky. Even now, with it at her fingertips, she still did not see.”

 

“And I suppose you're such a visionary,” deadpans Ward.

 

“My dear boy, you are a far cry from Harold indeed. No wonder he was disappointed in you.”

 

“That's me. Family disappointment.” Ward grins at Madame Gao. Casually reloads his gun with the clip Frank gave him. Trish is the only one who catches the minuscule tremble of his fingers, twinged green in apprehension as they are in the darkened world around them. “I know we will need a sword for her,” he says, indicating Elektra with a nod of his head, “but I bet _you_ will die just like every other fool who thought it a good idea to try and lay claim to this city.”

 

“Do not be too sure. Keep your loved ones close.”

 

Madame Gao steps away from Ward in the next breath. It's almost as if the woman wishes to make a clean escape, as her feet carry her toward the periphery of the battle. She remains untouched until Luke takes a wild, impulsive swing at her that ruffles her blouse.

 

His fist does not touch the rest of her.

 

Trish gasps and claps her hands in front of her mouth when Luke skids several feet back and lands in the side of one of the parked police vehicles. He lands hard enough to leave a sizable dent in its doors. Crumples to the ground and lays there briefly in a daze. It's Misty and Claire who help him to his feet, rushing out from their safe positions and keeping enemy forces at bay long enough for Luke to be able to steady himself.

 

“That's fucking _it_ ,” she hears Jess growl seconds later. Has to watch, helplessly, as her sister stalks over to Luke and wrenches the car door off the car completely. She's never seen Jess this angry. Has never heard the woman's voice at its maximum volume like this, either. “I've had it up to fucking _here_ with all this ninja mumbo-jumbo bullshit!”

 

The Devil concurs, if the devious smile that forms on Matt Murdock's face is anything to go by. “Together,” the man intones, voice raspy as he locks eyes with Madame Gao. “Let's finish this.”

 

Madame Gao folds and turns her hands in a steady stream of movements that remind Trish eerily of universal supplications of prayers. She's made them before herself, when little, when cowering in fear, when needing the world to stop in its tracks. Trish tastes gunmetal for a second before sticky honey coats her throat, invasive and hated in equal measure. She gags on it, coughs out wisps of dark smoke, rasps out shaky breaths as the taste of it will not abate.

 

The air around her builds into fog and sand and swamp. High-pitched ringing noises thrill through her eardrums. Nausea lodges itself in the pit of her belly, rising and rolling like the ocean's tide, but she expertly squashes down the urge to puke. Years of dealing with her mother have taught her that much. The sand is in her eyes, in her nose, in her mouth. She almost thinks Madame Gao has struck and broken the hourglass of time with the force of her will alone. Gags as the grains of sand lodge themselves deeper in her throat. Wipes at her eyes furiously until the worst of it clears from her vision.

 

It's Frank Castle's voice that carries over everything now. For a brief and ridiculous second, Trish wildly thinks he's gotten hold of a megaphone. It's only then that she notices the world has abruptly fallen silent. The only noise she can make out is the high-pitched ringing and low buzzing that rises from Madame Gao's faster-moving hands.

 

“Get down!” roars the Punisher from high above them. “Grenade!”

 

She's on the ground in an instant. Covers her head and curls up. Makes herself as small as possible. From between her arms, she can see that many fighters from both sides have taken the warning to heart as well.

 

The high-pitched noise crescendoes.

 

Madame Gao claps her hands once.

 

The world explodes in blinding white before the dark comes to claim it. The sound of thousands of feathered wings rushes over her body, crashes into her like a storm, shakes all her fear and panic loose from the places she tried to hide it in. Trish groans as sickly shades of green begin to war with darker teals and greys in her mind.

 

The Hand is choking her. Every breath she takes is part of the hive. Honey drips off her tongue. She shivers as the air turns to ice around her. They cannot hope to win from this. _They cannot.._

 

Her nails claw into the asphalt. She grits her teeth. She did not come this far only to back down now. She didn't come here to lose the fight. Trish shakes her hair out of her eyes. Brushes it back impatiently. Claws herself upright until she's on hands and knees. They will not win this. Thinks that if there is ever a time to say “fuck you, destiny, and screw you right in the face” the way Jess once claimed was the best approach to the world telling you what life was going to be like, this moment may be it.

 

She snarls out a breath. Spits out the last of the honey. Observes the world around her.

 

Luke and Jessica are already up and running, sprinting toward Madame Gao as fast as their legs can carry them. Jessica, miraculously, is still holding the car door. The Devil is only a short while behind them, looking as disoriented as Trish feels but stumbling into battle all the same. Danny and Colleen are side-by-side, rising to their feet and positioning themselves with their backs to one another so they can charge their attackers from all sides.

 

Only The Hand rises as an enemy now. The few members of Midland Circle are still huddled on the floor, looking for all the world like they want to be anywhere but where they currently are. The two IGH recruits still present don't seem to fare a whole lot better. One of them is bleeding from his nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. The other seems to be down and out for the count. Trish grins at the sight.

 

Then, her eyes lock onto something else.

 

Her heart stops.

 

“Ward! Ward!”

 

Trish scrambles to her feet fully as she now sees Ward rise to his feet and stand alone before Elektra. Takes off at a run the second she finds her balance, intent on careening into the path between her lover and the darkness. Moving toward them is like attempting to wade through molasses and thickened syrup. She still tries. She has to try.

 

She slams up against a wall that was not there before. Her hands splay out over the solidified air before her, feeling the vibrations of it beneath her fingertips, sensing the murky grey of Elektra's mind woven through it all. Trish withdraws from the sensations as if she's stung, not wanting to entangle with the woman's mind if she can at all help it. She's still not sure if there is anything of Elektra left inside the black and charred grey that keeps her separated from Ward.

 

Peripherally, she is aware of the fight around them slowing down before abating almost entirely. Colleen retracts her blades and comes to stand next to Danny, who's already pounding away on the wall with both fists and still not breaching any of it with his chi. Trish hears Claire's tentative footsteps next to Misty's heavier footfalls as the women inch closer toward the wall themselves. She shivers as the Devil's gaze settles on the woman beyond the wall and she hears a whisper of her name tumble past his lips.  
  
Even now, the Black Sky does not speak. All the woman does is tilt her head to observe Ward as though he is nothing more than an insect she can squash beneath her boot at any given moment. Trish takes a few steps back again. Runs at the wall a second time, folding and sharpening her energy into a bullet best she can.

 

She falls on her ass, of course, because a successful attempt would only happen in one of the B-movie action flicks that both she and Ward love more than air.

 

Her eyes level with the ground just for a moment. It's enough to make her blood run cold. Tendrils of black tar swirl underneath concrete and stone before ascending through the earth and piercing the wall. Vines begin to form and solidify against the invisible barrier, giving shape to its wide perimeter but not obscuring the view of what lies beyond it. There's a sickness in the earth itself. Trish feels as though she's teetering on the edge of an abyss so large she can't see the end of it.

 

Ward looks as nauseous as she feels. He inches away from Elektra's form as far as he can, though his movements are even more sluggish than Trish's. Something glistens on his cheek for a moment.

 

She hears the rush of beating wings before she sees anything. Terror claws at her throat in earnest now as her nightmares spill forth into the world.

 

_Caw! Caw!_

 

The ancient Celts saw crows as harbingers of warfare. Younger myths position them as dealings of the devil, bringing death into the world with their voices rattling out a rallying cry that can incite the greatest fears in whoever hears the sound. Trish never set much stock in the younger stories, convinced as she is that crows shoulder the heavy burden of watching over both warriors and wounded as in the oldest tales known to man, but today she might almost begin to believe the worst of them.

 

The sounds of rustling feathers and endless cawing mingle in a dance above her head. She does not dare look up at the sky. She already knows what she will see. Crows as black as night storming against the New York air in an attempt to absorb and block out the last of the light. The fluttering of their wings almost sounds like a thunderclap or like thousands of banners streaming out in the wind in the wake of warriors long forgotten.

 

Fear constricts her lungs. The world turns a little darker still, dimming even the most present light of Danny's Iron Fist exponentially.

 

She understands the visions and nightmares now. Understands Madame Gao's instruction to keep your loved ones close.

 

“Please,” she whispers anyway.

 

The Black Sky pays her no heed. Darkness coats Ward's skin. Tar rises off the street and covers his shoes, swamps his ankles, rises up his legs as though it was given tentacles with which to claim him. Constellations of stars swirl away from him in outward motions, with every pinprick of light on the dark canvas forming what she knows are memories and every colour that sweeps past her another emotion that used to be a part of the man she loves.

 

Her hand reaches for his stars in the night sky. They trickle through her fingers, dance on her fingertips in that teasing motion she knows so well, embrace her wrist briefly before releasing once more. She can't hold on to any of it. She can't hold on to him.

 

Trish begs the universe to halt his light in its tracks. Pleads with it in a way that makes her drop to her knees before the darkness. Bargains for his life with the ruthless cold that rages inside the Black Sky. Her voice is a stream of prayer and supplication as his life slips from him and streams out into the night. _Let him go release him please let him live let him be mine let me keep him please let him go please let him be please gift him this chance take me instead take me take me take me please please take me and leave him be let him live let him be..._

 

“Ward!” Danny's voice joins her pleas now, screaming out the name of the man she knows is the closest thing the hero has for a brother. The Iron Fist's fury runs hot through her, turning her insides liquid gold, blossoming green cobwebs over her skin. “Let him go! Elektra, release him!” He beseeches the woman as if she still remembers her own name, as if she is something more than the terrifying dark before them. “Black Sky, let him go!”

 

The woman pays their pleas no heed. All of Frank Castle's and Misty Knight's well-aimed bullets ricochet off the wall. There is a half-smile tugging at her lips that Trish would love to smack off her face if given half the chance. The Black Sky never even glances at Ward. It doesn't register the tears streaking down his cheeks. It doesn't know the fear in his gaze. It doesn't pay any attention to the words he's still forming with his lips, despite the dark clawing its way inside him. It does not know the last of his love.

 

_You got this, sweetheart, I love you._

 

Trish takes his trust best she can. Breathes in the last of his love that threads through her hair and ghosts over her lips. Exhales just as the darkness constricts around him.

 

Twilight gleams in Ward's eyes for a moment.

 

“No. No.” Her voice turns the word into a mantra. She doesn't know how often she repeats it. Doesn't know where the word ends and she begins anymore. It's all she's made of here, at the end of all things. She doesn't dare breathe anything else any longer. Hysteria edges into her tone, sharp and cutting and a prayer without end all at once. She claws at the night before her. “No!”

 

His eyes dim as the dark collapses upon him. The light blinks once, twice, before fading from him altogether. There is one more breath. Then, nothing.

 

Ward's body topples to the ground.

 

Her screams are the only noise that shatters the fallen silence.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all still with me as we dive into the _other_ half of the action...

“ _Dance with me!”_

 

_If there is one thing she does love about Ward's apartment, it's that it gives her a great space to dance in. She's currently swaying back and forth to all the pop songs Ward loudly complains about from his position on the couch. Her hands are stretched out to him, beckoning him, pulling at him. She's grinning so widely that she thinks her face might stay like this when the clock strikes twelve._

 

“ _I don't dance!”_

 

“ _Oh come on, when was the last time you did something silly just for the heck of it?” She twirls on the spot, blonde hair fanning out and swirling around her. Shoots him pointed glances whenever she lays eyes on his face. “Ward, pleeeease, dance with me?”_

 

“ _This is more than silly,” he gripes as he rises from the couch. He takes her by the hand and stops the twirl in mid-spin. She sways dizzily on her feet for a moment. His hand reaches to steady her at the waist, holding her gingerly in place, silently asking permission even when his warmth is already seeping through her skin. “I will have you know you're incorrigible.”_

 

“ _The best kind.”_

 

_He doesn't argue with that. Instead, he starts to move with her. He's halting about it at first, pausing after a few steps as if to think about the next move, but she finds herself falling in step with him so easily that it feels like this is something utterly natural between them. Ward finds his feet so rapidly that she has no choice but to let him lead, even when her brain rebels against the notion of having a man lead her in any dance._

 

_She's spinning around the room before long, his hands and feet expertly steering her away from any furniture, light and joy and rapture sweeping her off the floor and sending her twirling into his arms. Round and round they spin, round and round they go, round and round until they're both sweating and laughing and almost soaring..._

 

_Soaring.._

 

_Spinning.._

 

_Round.. round.. round..._

 

Her hands grasp at thin air as the world comes crashing back down upon her with an unearthly roar. Something dark twists invisible knives into her belly and her nails scrape over the concrete until she's bleeding on the outside instead of just on the inside within all the places that are torn asunder beneath her grief. She's scattered to the winds, still spinning, still soaring around in the open skies of her memories. She's down on the ground on all fours, screaming his name, screaming anguish in a piercing tone that makes the Devil's hands cover his ears, screaming until her voice shatters under the pressure of loss, screaming until it feels like she's going to run out of air, screaming as though impossible death itself can be undone. She screams until her voice gives out and her tears freeze on her cheeks. Screams until all she can do is watch the world around her come to life again.

 

Trish is seconds away from shell-shocked, eyes glazing over and her vision blurring before her eyes, some great chasm opening up underneath the secure home she's built inside her, but she crawls over to the wall the Black Sky has erected all the same. Presses her hands to it in abrupt silence, feeling the dark shift underneath her fingers and soak her skin with molasses. She presses down on it even harder.

 

She observes the world going on around her. Witnesses Jeri Hogarth take up arms and stand side-by-side with Misty Knight, all of her dignity and indifference shoved to the side. Sees the woman's sharp intake of breath, the tear that slips past her iron control, the rage that curls her lips and makes her grip on the steel bar even tighter. Hears Misty bark out a string of orders that, for once, get followed up as soon as they're given. New York's first responders are a well-oiled team after the series of disasters that keep lashing out within their city. Even now, at the end of all things, a spark of gratitude flares to life within her at their continued presence.

 

She hears the steady, unwavering pops of gunfire fly high within the air. Senses Frank Castle's cold warfare lurk in only half of them. The remaining are all Karen's, warm and relentless all at once, weaving into being like starbursts in the darkened sky. Luke is quick to follow the fire home, darting and weaving between fighters and shielding friendly faces from imminent danger. The unbreakable man looks tired but not shattered, and Trish wonders how he can keep going when the full force of The Hand takes up arms against him tirelessly.

 

Claire is a small ball of fury curling up and rolling out at anyone who dares get too close to the other women. In the distance, she hears Colleen issue a challenge that is as white-hot as her own rage feels. Hears the snarl on the breaths of all the women in her life and dimly wonders if Marci can sense it too even when she is miles away. The woman's image flits into her mind's eye, all strength in every bone of her body and all love in the crushing weight of her arms. She smiles when Marci's image tangles with Foggy's easy laugh, fortified by the Devil's stream of pink-hued reds that bleed out into the world even now.

 

Trish watches as Luke and the Devil finally take Madame Gao by an arm each, white-hot fury their strongest force against her continued machinations, and slam the woman against Midland Circle's concrete wall. Sees Jessica raise the car door once again. For a moment, she thinks the dark-haired Defender plans to use it as a shield.

 

It's a weapon.

 

Jessica turns brightest, deepest, richest purple before her eyes. Midnight blue crosses her sister's face like the ocean's embrace, sweeping reason away with its waves, crashing down onto the one who would unleash such hell onto the world. Luke can't bear to look at her. The Devil murmurs silent prayer. Jessica closes her eyes and lets out a scream of her own.

 

Trish is the only one who sees The Hand's head fall.

 

Madame Gao is no more.

 

Luke and the Devil step away from the body. Jessica throws the car door down on top of the severed head unceremoniously. Stunned silence follows its crash, as though only now the fighters realise what occurred. The fight freezes in its tracks as The Hand finally loses the last of its leaders. The hive is adrift for a moment, buzzing in place, uncertain of how to proceed from here. She can see the few IGH recruits and Midland Circle guards flee the scene best they can, though half of them get scooped up by the NYPD before long. Frank Castle's bullets follow the soldiers unerringly.

 

The Hand is afraid. Trish can taste it on the air, thick and heavy, murky colours washing over her one by one. She shivers and zips Ward's jacket shut. Lets it hug her body in his absence, even as the scent of his cologne invades her nostrils and knocks her breath out of her lungs. She whimpers out her loss in darkest purple only a moment as she curls her fingers around the jacket's hem.

 

Another shockwave permeates the air. Her blonde hair sweeps up with its tremors as some of The Hand lose their balance and almost topple to the floor. Ice washes over Trish's hands as the dark coalesces beneath her grasp and spikes up at her without warning. Fire trembles in the air soon after, growing hot on her skin, scorching itself into the ground at the centre beyond the wall. The dark presses in, fluttering through the heavens above her with the whispers and rustles of millions of feathers, sinking into her as though it wishes to consume her whole.

 

The Black Sky is _enraged_. Elektra's head whips around to Madame Gao's fallen form as The Hand's forces around them all halt their motions. Luke and the Devil have already stepped away, chests heaving, eyes dry but insides quailing teal and red tendrils out at the world in guilt. Neither one of them enjoys bringing death. Trish knows what it cost them to gift The Hand with it now, how there will be things in their memories from here on out that even they cannot walk away from. She sees it in Luke's slightly crumpled shoulders and the Devil's gaze turning skyward.

 

Jessica still stands before Madame Gao's crumpled body.

 

“No!” Trish finds her voice, screaming not a plea but a demand out into the world, as soon as Elektra's gaze fixes on Jessica. Her throat constricts for just a moment when blackest tar rises up inside her and coats her tongue with familiar darkness. She swallows it down. Feels it seep into her body instead as a constant reminder of how dangerous her life has become. She scrapes her throat. Balls her fists. Roars out another warning that converges into panic and rage alike. “No! You stay away from Jessica!”

 

Abject terror fuels her as she strikes out at the wall that separates her from the Black Sky. She does not care that the dark beyond the wall rises into the air and almost obscures the woman's body from view. Does not care that Elektra's head now swivels back around as the wall crackles warnings underneath her fists. She's pounds and ounces of fury and loss raging at the dark before her, threatening it with teeth bared and the snarl of fighter's relish rumbling through her throat, daring it to claim another she loves.

 

She can't lose Jessica, too.

 

Trish lets out a scream as she extends herself into the wall, falling headlong into it as it becomes pliable, crashing into it whole as it gives way to her demands. Dark rises up to coat her skin, but cannot find a foothold. Her eyes fix on Jessica in silent prayer before slipping to Ward's lifeless body on the ground before her.

 

_Ward. Ward. Ward._

 

Her brain repeats his name as a mantra while she lashes out at the dark that threatens to consume her even now. She laughs at it when it attempts to escape her grasp. Holds it just a little more tightly in her fingers. Rips at the fabric that it's made of, tears at the spaces her nails leave in it, shatters it to the winds that rise beneath her fingertips. The black tar inside her bleeds out into the wall, filling up the holes her hands tear into it, and for a moment she thinks it is fortifying it.

 

The air before her trembles, and she knows better.

 

She raises a hand to meet it.

 

Says only one word.

 

“No.”

 

The wall falls.

 

Danny launches himself at the Black Sky instantly. His fists rain down upon its vessel, though Elektra's arms come up to counter his movements even now. It's not long before they are engaged in battle. The warrior becomes a blur of light in her haunting shadows. Elektra's face contorts with something far more malicious before she reaches for Danny with the same tendrils of dark she used on Ward. The Iron Fist refuses to be ensnared. The light of his chi burns brighter still, scorching her clothes and setting her skin aflame with its force.

 

Not for the first time, Trish whispers a silent prayer of gratitude to the universe for giving them Danny. The young fighter weaves in and out of battle fluidly, spinning and twisting around the Black Sky with practiced ease, upsetting the precarious balance it previously anchored itself in. He is more confident now, finally rooted in New York like the rest of them are, and it shows in the surety of his kicks and punches. He lashes out and strikes his exact goal over, and over, and over again.

 

It's not enough.

 

Trish tilts her head as she observes the Black Sky in motion. The woman is all swirling dark and a fight so well-practiced that its movements seem almost entirely made of liquid. Her punches strike their goal, too, and her kicks send Danny flying more often than not. There's something old lurking in her dark eyes even now. There is the feeling of something ancient that has settled into the woman's skin and bones. Time itself seems to spill out from behind the woman's dark eyes. Time that is slowly, surely, steadily running out. Elektra Natchios truly is no more.

 

_This_ knowledge, of all things, makes her reach out to the Black Sky directly. Trish expands beyond herself. Feels the energy that is shifting and ever-changing around them all. Bypasses the bright, bright lights of all four Defenders. Acknowledges the gentle imprints of Misty, Claire, and the others who've come to their aid. Sees the Punisher's greys mingle with Karen's brightest sunset upon the balcony. Knows the sweeping, arching motions of Colleen's energy before plummeting back down toward the body of the one man she cannot sense at all anymore.

 

Grief threatens to choke her for a moment.

 

Then, no more.

 

Her jaw locks and sets into the stubbornness that her mother was never able to beat out of her. She coats herself in the armour she forged in all the years of never feeling good enough. Cloaks herself in the power that trembles through her veins, white and purple and brightest hues of blue swirling into yellow all the while. Red streaks past her fingertips before injecting itself into her arms and shooting upward through her veins. Fire lodges itself in her bloodstream, made liquid with all the rage and loss she feels, and refuses to budge until her entire body is engulfed by the endless stream of lava pouring out into her from deep within. She's liquid within herself, liquid encased in a body that has been broken and remade a million times, liquid enshrouded within a woman who can say she was truly loved.

 

There is a part of her that's still screaming. A part of her that's still tearing at the walls in an attempt to get to her lover. A part of her that refuses to consider reality even for a second, terrified as she is that she will wake up to find that it is real. She thinks she might choke on the terror that lies in the screams. Refuses to acknowledge that the screams harbour a loss so great she thinks she might never recover.

 

She doesn't want the dark to recover from what it took.

 

Trish takes a step forward. Takes another step forward when it seems like the earth does not wish to shatter beneath her feet just yet. Walks headlong into the danger that lies beyond the fallen wall. Does not stop for anything, not even when she hears Karen's panicked scream in the distance and sees Jessica close her eyes in supplication before the woman's mouth forms an endless stream of pleas and prayers. There was a time she would have smiled at that, marking it down as the influence of the other Defenders on the woman's being, but she finds it hard to smile now that she is so close to breaking.

 

She keeps walking until she stands between the Black Sky and Ward's body. Comes to a halt not inches away from his feet. She can't bear to look at him. She can't wrap her mind around what her eyes would see if she did.

 

Trish stands before the Black Sky and feels anything but afraid.

 

In this moment, even the Iron Fist pauses. Danny's motions blur before falling still altogether. There is something terrible in his eyes as he steps away from the onslaught he has rained down upon the Black Sky. Trish almost laughs at it in welcome, recognising its hopelessness from the way her own eyes strain and the way her body shifts to accommodate the pain even now. Her smile dies on her lips when Danny's eyes stray to Ward's body and fill up with tears.

 

She hears footsteps behind her. Hogarth's, quick and sure, if she is correct about who the footsteps belong to. As Trish lives and breathes, she will swear to it that it's Hogarth's eggplant purple streaking warnings into the dark around them. She will swear to hearing the woman fall to her knees at Ward's head. Feels the woman's lilac energy, loving and more caring than Hogarth will ever admit out loud, take his face between her hands before letting Ward's head drop into her lap.

 

Claire's hesitant yellow darts in and out of the space at Trish's back before it drops to the floor beside Hogarth and pierces the dark upon Ward's skin with expert browns and greens. The night has no foothold in his body anymore now that family surrounds it. Trish's eyes strain as she blinks away tears. Her throat rasps out a breath as Danny's golden hues mingle with Claire's healing cornflower yellow. The young warrior drops to his knees on the other side of Ward and takes the hands of the women into his own. The Iron Fist's chi bleeds out into the world and sets it ablaze with new light.

 

Then, there is Jessica. The dark-haired Defender still limps slightly, but her footsteps are more certain than Trish has ever heard them. She knows the woman intends to place herself between Trish and the Black Sky, selfless to her last, even when it may mean certain death. She holds out a hand to stop her sister. Holds out a hand in that timeless gesture of “let me” that she knows Jessica has perfected into a shrug and acidic quip over the years. It's her time to offer her version of that shrug, though she doesn't think she has the presence of mind to quip her way through the next moments.

 

Jessica's footsteps change course until the woman stands shoulder-to-shoulder with her. Trish's insides tremble as she realises the implication of the movement. No longer is she someone to simply protect and get into trouble over. Maybe she never really was, because Jessica feels awfully sure beneath the calm colours that wash over Trish's skin. _I love you_ shapes the air between two sisters, certain and unwavering, certain and undemanding, certain and forever.

 

Trish watches Elektra's face contort into confusion. Sees the uncertainty, just for a moment, before the dark sweeps back into the woman's eyes. Trish doesn't think the woman can comprehend what happens before her. She doesn't think there is anything left within Elektra that recognises this love for what it is. Doesn't think there is anything inside of the Black Sky that has known such resistance within its lifetime.

 

The Black Sky is not familiar with loss. All it does is take, and take, and take.

 

Trish reaches for the most ancient of evils willingly.

 

All goes dark before her eyes. She is weightless as she journeys deeper into the pitch black. There is something primordial lurking in its depths. It is almost as if there is something watching her from somewhere beyond the dark, as though there is something far older than darkness in this world that she can now catch a glimpse of. Something observes her from deep within the dark, though it does not seem to be made of the dark at all.

 

A fog lies between her and the observer. She tilts her head and spreads her arms wide in supplication. It's almost as if she's in a hallway with many, many doorways all shrouded with veils of different kinds. Some are so light they are almost see-through, while others are heavy and tattered with years of use. Something large moves just beyond them. Something ancient ripples through the veils and makes them stream out like banners in the wind.

 

Her laugh bubbles up inside her belly, sets her airways alight with joy, tumbles over her lips in jagged and soft pieces that all tangle together in the sound. There is safety in the grandeur of the observer. It is the most casual of viewers, never judging, always watchful. Strangely, she thinks of it almost as a great whale. She has always loved the grandest of earth's animals more than she can say. The ocean made her feel safe even as her mother's arms did not.

 

She can see the waves rolling in beyond the veils. There's a far-away shore, too distant for her to stand on, and a great many seashells line the doorways.

 

There was something before the dark. There was something before the light. Before sea and cool waves, before the sand, before the earth, before the skies above it, there was nothing but a chasm. The chasm, the abyss, the dark, nothing but a gaping hole.

 

From this chasm, light began. The stars did not yet know their stations and the sun and moon did not follow any set plan. Yet, there came life. Bright and shining, fire and hope treading upon the grass for the very first time, colliding and building something magnificent within creation.

 

With the life came balance. Death walked the earth, to take what would no longer serve, to claim creator and creation and return them home to the chasm from whence they came. So it was, a while, and this time was good.

 

The dark moved in this new time. It could not see a reason for death to be in life. It did not wish for the balance to shift and renew itself until the last vestiges of eternity passed before it. The dark rose up. The dark rebelled. The dark sought to claim dominion over death.

 

Trish feels its hand close around her throat only for a moment. Dark took death into a chokehold, shaking it in demand until it relinquished some of its permanence. The dark did not understand what it had sought to claim.

 

It was the light that understood it best of all. She smiles as a thousand pinpricks of stars begin to spiral in the dark, dark skies above her. Focuses on the countless galaxies that came into being only because the chasm did not wish to spend its existence in solitude. When the crows fly now, and caw the dead to the afterworlds, their eyes glint white only for a moment. Death has dominion over all life here, now, and forever after. This is as it must be, even when her throat constricts with heavy grief and her eyes burn with loss and her heart feels like it may yet wrench itself out of her chest entirely. She knows this is the way, even when she wants to pitch headlong into the abyss and forget she ever was. Forget she ever loved.

 

Trish _remembers_.

 

Nature always seeks balance.

 

She has never understood this saying until now, when she stares into the eyes of the Black Sky and finds its gaze strangely _afraid_. She takes another step forward. This one is deliberate, born of all the times she came home to face her mother. Born of all the times she rose to her feet, brushed off her tears, and went to work. Born of the moments in which she thinks she has something to live for. Born of Jessica, of Karen and Marci both, of Ward.

 

_Ward_.

 

The Black Sky takes a step back. The darkness wavers.

 

Trish smiles. She reaches for Jessica's hand. Entangles her fingers with her sister's and holds her so tightly she thinks she might yet crush the woman's bones beneath her grasp. The dark-haired hero squeezes back reassuringly. There is something of a _'you got this'_ lurking in the grip that makes her smile even wider, even as tears begin to roll down her cheeks anew.

 

Light streams out into the world again. The Iron Fist is the beacon around which it spins, like a linchpin in the fabric of the universe. She stands on the edge of the deep well from which Danny's power springs. Watches as the stars begin to converge above their heads. Watches as thousands of crow's eyes gleam brightest white for a moment before their wings make them scatter and disperse.

 

The Black Sky reaches out both hands to the sky in supplication, but the crows do not stay. They slip through the woman's arms whole, feathers rustling against her fingertips, cawing all the while as they sweep away from the centre of the battle.

 

“Fucking bird,” she hears Jessica snarl as one of the crows attempts to perch atop her head. Trish lets out an incredulous laugh as the crow pays Jessica's rather violent response no heed. “Get the fuck off of me!”

 

“Let it,” replies Trish, voice hoarse, observing the crow's keen glinting eyes that feel so familiar. “I think this one needs to stay.”

 

The Black Sky eyes the crow hungrily, though it does not step closer to Jessica. A shudder trembles through Elektra's body as Jessica sighs out a curse and reaches out to let the crow perch on her free hand. Something within its eyes feels known to Trish. As though she has seen this one before, only she knows it is not the crow from her dreams and vision. It takes a moment before she remembers where she has last seen eyes like these.

 

She reaches for the Devil in the next breath. Anchors him best she can in all the people he knows so well. Remembers the people that stand with him, even those she has not met in person. Wraps him in Karen's sunlight, Foggy's greens, the priest's purples, Jessica's midnight blues, Danny's golden armour, Luke's steady browns, Claire's lightest greens, Melvin Potter's careful blues. It's only then that she reaches for Elektra and _only_ Elektra from the man's life, taking care to not uproot him whole in the process but not relenting either. She thinks she has the next course of action figured out, even when her own anger and grief lurk just beneath the surface and complicate the haze that's settling over her brain.

 

Jessica's hand releases hers abruptly as the Black Sky pours all her rage into the brightening air. Dimly, Trish is aware that the Defender steps in front of her and that she is not alone in doing so. Luke and Misty stand side-by-side, supported by Colleen, and step into darkness's path willingly. The Devil is not far behind, though his movements are slow as his love for the woman bleeds out into the world through every breath Trish exhales now.

 

She thinks she would have loved Elektra, somehow, as her mind's image of the woman solidifies into dark eyes crinkling in amusement, a low voice flirting her way through life, well-manicured hands punching stone and bone until they're bleeding, a relaxed smile coaxing laughter forth from the Devil. Love hangs in the air around them as bright reds and pinks dance forth from the crow's gleaming eyes.

 

Trish tastes the Black Sky's fear on her tongue as Danny's chi flares up brighter than ever before. Airborne become his golden hues, mingling with memories of the woman whose body stands before them still, and airborne become the green tendrils of life soon after. She watches, mesmerised, as the cracks within the concrete are suddenly filled with dirt and green offshoots of plants she can't yet identify. Sees golden flowers claim dominion over the larger cracks, as though nature has finally seen fit to lay down ownership of the land once more.

 

The Black Sky loses its foothold.

 

Night dissipates where the flowers bloom. She feels as though she can breathe right again, chest no longer constricted by the oppressive dark, and inhales a deep breath as her mind quietens into certainty. She _pushes_ outward in the next exhale.

 

Dark threatens to sweep her off her feet when she touches it. She shakes her head at it, rooted between flowers and the earth as she is, anchored to the people who surround her with their love as she stands and does not waver. Tendrils of black tar reach out to her all the same. Elektra fixes her gaze upon her, eyes sparking with something old and dangerous.

 

Trish is not afraid.

 

Maybe she would have been, once, a long time ago. Maybe she would have been, before her world changed. Maybe she was born afraid – sometimes, that is how it feels – but that is not who she is anymore. She smiles at Jessica when the dark tendrils touch her hands. Mouths “it's going to be okay” at the sister she never asked for but received regardless. Jessica's love, erratic though it is, burns fiercely in the remnants of night as the woman gazes back and finally nods sharply.

 

Dawn breaks anew in the city, and Trish reaches for the night.

 

_Dusty tombs rise up all around her. She stumbles for a moment on the suddenly uneven floor. The only light in the chamber is the one she cradles within her hands. She dares not take another step into the dark, surrounded by death as she is._

 

Trish shakes her head. Thinks of the chasm's impartial observer, calm and collected, watching her from beyond the veils of death's many chambers. Wonders how anyone can fear the unknown so much that they would do anything to be clear of it.

 

_Blood pools on the floor in rivers and streams and trickles of life. Her hands are slick with it. Her lips coated in it. She drinks from the well of life. Her head is pounding with the words of ritual. Her gestures and footfalls are heavy with intent._

 

Trish shakes her head anew. Her mind fills with The Hand's arcane rituals, long lost to time and the depravity of the Black Sky. She pays them no heed. She sees a flower blossoming between Elektra's feet, small and golden and full of vibrance. Thinks that perhaps this is what life is – just something daring to leap forth from the shadows to bring the light back in.

 

Maybe that's what love is, too.

 

“ _I propose a toast,” he says, raising the plastic cup of wine to her._

 

_They're in the park again. She's not even sure why she even dragged the remainder of wine out of her apartment and snuck it into plastic cups without a care for the park's strict policy on public alcohol consumption. It's cheap swill all the way through, because she'll be damned the second she actually spends good money on the better stuff._

 

“ _What on earth are you toasting to?” she asks, frowning at Ward before extending the frown to the cup of wine in her hand. Wrinkles her nose at the scent that wafts into her nostrils. “God, this stuff is so fucking sour that I think it's giving my tongue a detoxing scrub.”_

 

“ _A toast to finally having a friend who, like me, should not be drinking but will sneak the world's most awful wine out into the park and get us both arrested anyway.” He smirks at her and empties the remainder of the bottle into the grass as he speaks. “Last time I drank this stuff, I was eighteen. The first night after I started at Rand on my own. Drank the whole bottle.”_

 

“ _I don't know whether that's bravery or stupidity,” she remarks. Tilts her head to look at him more closely. Contemplates before deciding which of the two it is. “Yeah, I'm going to go with stupidity.”_

 

“ _Thanks.”_

 

“ _Anytime,” she hums. Tips the cup's contents back into her throat and splutters slightly at the burn it leaves her with. “Last time I had this, I'd had a temper tantrum in an empty parking lot. Came home to this bottle's twin and just... flunked out on my sobriety. Just like that.”_

 

“ _What happened?”_

 

“ _Nothing, really,” she laughs, feeling rather stupid herself. “IGH's pills had unexpected side-effects. The rage is part of me now, but back then I just wound up screaming bloody murder and attacking whatever was closest to me. I have it under control now, but the drinking helps me keep the worst of it down.” Her face contorts with disgust just for a second. She watches his brow crease in obvious concern. “I keep telling myself that one day I'll be sober again. One day, I won't need all these crutches anymore.”_

 

“ _And you will.” He says it with such certainty, such finality, that she almost believes him. “You will.”_

 

“ _So will you,” she says, and believes_ that _more than she believes any such good fortune for herself. Laughs and settles in more comfortably next to him when he merely raises his eyebrow at her. Elbows his side gently. “We make a good pair, don't we?”_

 

“ _Yeah.”_

 

Trish shakes herself out of the memory to find the dark screaming in agony all around her. Watches it crumble and flee before her eyes as she greets it with a gentle smile and wraps her own love around the life that springs forth from the Iron Fist.

 

_Jessica, strong and fierce and giving, weathering any storm by force of will. Danny, young and sweet and courageous, jumping between danger and innocence any day of the week. Luke, steady and certain and calm, moving the world when it refuses to progress. Matt, fire and brightest dark and unstoppable, shaking the world awake with footsteps of righteousness._

 

_Karen, sunshine on open waters and shadows on the wall, dancing between truth and justice. Marci, ice and first flowers of spring, sprawling out and leaving her marks upon the universe. Foggy, steadfast and loyal, building bridges and taking the matches from those who'd burn them. Claire, knowledge and gifts of life, cradling the future in her hands. Misty, all-seeing and searching, hunting down all the things that matter most. Hogarth, towers and glass, pulling the fabric of the world together into constricted words. Frank, blood and earth, rising from the ashes and raining vengeance down upon the fallen._

 

_Ward, bright open skies and darkened eyes, reaching for her hand._

 

Trish balls a fist around all the memories that crash into her as she thinks of each of them in turn. She isn't old, not yet, and she has never been the type to grace ancient beings with anything akin to the proper kind of respect. The Black Sky is not something for her to revere, no matter how old its eyes, no matter how much power it exudes, and she is not the kneeling kind of woman. All she is, is someone who loves too much. Loves too freely. Loves until her heart gives out and the world itself changes around her.

 

Her eyes harden.

 

She breathes change into being, focusing all the while on the golden flower beneath the Black Sky's feet. Watches as it takes root and starts to sprawl out in a myriad collection of nature's most beautiful. She names them all in turn: goldenrod and forget-me-not, snowdrop and bergamot, calla lily and holly, heather and bittersweet, and countless others she has known all her life. Watches the bravest among them rise and lay claim to the Black Sky.

 

Trish sinks down to the floor and kneels before creation itself. Presses a hand to the dirt that bursts from between the concrete. The earth itself is pulsating. Vibrating. Telling stories of home and its people to whoever wishes to listen.

 

She listens now.

 

High-pitched ringing noises reach her ears as the Black Sky gestures at the fabric of night. The air around Elektra's body constricts and tightens until it becomes a hazy blur that swivels around her outstretched hands. She holds out a hand and pushes back in turn. Halts the sprawl of dark in its tracks and folds the air into constricting motions around the woman.

 

Green and gold wind themselves around the Black Sky, tightening around her slender frame and invading upon her until her very skin seems to be glowing with the Iron Fist's light. Trish anchors herself to it almost without thinking.

 

The air around her shifts into motion. Purest white uncoils within her, rearing and lunging at the dark like a snake, and becomes visible in the last remains of the dark. She lets its tendrils claim the Black Sky whole. Lets them lay claim over Elektra, even when screams are ripped from the woman's throat and the Devil turns away with tear-streaked cheeks. Lets every last one of the tendrils take ownership of the dark and rebalance the world the only way she can think of. Lets them wrap around the flowers until all their colours bleed into the white and all their life snuffs out the dark.

 

The Hand trembles for just a moment, fight already long-forgotten, mesmerised as fighters on all sides are by the exchanges of energy that fly back and forth. Weaponry clatters to the floor. The hive is disrupted. The hive scatters. The hive can _break_.

 

Trish gives it one final push.

 

Extends herself out into all the shadows. Twists them into her hands, curls them into the soil that grows and expands beneath it all, lets roots and water fold around them until life itself returns to them. Colours rush out to meet her as the hive breaks. Memories follow soon after, long forgotten and finally brought back to the foreground, but they blur together too much for her to pick any one particular sort out. She thinks they're the lives of all those who've dedicated themselves to the Hand. Wonders, briefly, how long some of those lives truly were when it is true they can cheat death.

 

Death allows itself to be cheated on no longer. Elektra's screams go quiet. The ancient dark unravels under the touch of life so strong it can't be killed. Trish wraps herself in all the love she has and prays it's enough to withstand the storm that's rising all around them. They're in its eye, dead in its centre, and for a terrible moment she thinks she has miscalculated as dark reaches into the ground without warning.

 

It does not last.

 

White, raw, golden light streams out from the earth itself. She rises to her feet shakily as the light starts to burn upon her skin. For a moment, she risks glancing back at where Danny is seated.

 

The Iron Fist's face speaks of peace. His hands are folded around Ward's, his lips move in endless prayer, his legs are folded under him as though he is one with the earth. Trish finds herself smiling at the sight, even when her heart stops a moment when her eyes land on Ward's face.

 

She tears herself away with some difficulty.

 

Screams rupture the air anew as the light reaches up, up, _up_ and begins to stream into Elektra. The woman's once-beautiful face contorts into ugly snarls and grimaces. Her cheeks turn hollow. Her eyes sink deeper into her skull. Her skin turns sallow and finally fragments like old and brittle parchment.

 

The certainty of Elektra Natchios' death upon that rooftop many moons ago becomes clear as the light seeps through her and illuminates a silent, unbeating heart.

 

The dark falls in upon itself.

 

Fighters on the outer reaches of the battle fall first. Crumble to the floor, topple to the ground, fade into nothing but shadow. Death finally comes to claim those who successfully avoided it for years. Rushes in with all the casual quiet it is known for and stops for no one. Fighters closer to them fall now, brought to their knees by inevitability, bodies ageing and deteriorating before their eyes. The Hand topples until it finally is no more.

 

The Black Sky disperses from the world around them slowly. Colours of the dawn seep back in, illuminating their faces in golden peach-toned hues before turning as blood red as the Devil's gleaming eyes. Daylight returns to New York City as one woman draws her final breath.

 

Elektra falls into the Devil's waiting arms with no more than a sigh.

 

“Go in peace,” whispers Danny's voice behind Trish, sounding exhausted and relieved all at once. “May the light carry you home.”

 

Trish blinks in surprise as Jessica's arms wrap around the Devil's weeping form. Her sister's head comes to rest on the top of the mask, dark hair curtaining his grief, as he reaches one hand up to grasp her arm. Luke kneels beside them both, gently reaching for Elektra and laying her flower-adorned body down on the ground before them. She seems almost part of the ground itself, sprawled out in earth-toned limbs and shadow-filled hair, and more vibrantly alive in death than she was all throughout this day. The brightest light surrounds them all for a moment before dissipating into the travelling sunshine that currently strikes the first of the rooftops in their line of sight.

 

Claire brushes past her, hand squeezing hers for just a moment, before she too joins them and takes the Devil's face in her hands. Her voice is so quiet that Trish can't make it out, but she knows the Devil's hearing would be able to pick up on what Claire is saying even from many a mile away. She watches for just a moment longer. Sees the Devil's face contort into half a smile, sees Claire exchange a look of relief with Jess, sees Luke sling his own arm around the nurse.

 

Trish turns away from them and wraps her arms around her own body.

 

“It's okay, Danny,” says Colleen's voice behind her as the Iron Fist finally starts to sob. “You did all you could.”

 

Trish frowns in confusion, not registering for a moment what the young woman means. She closes her eyes and pinches her skin hard when Danny's voice chokes on its sobs. He sounds so very desolate and lost as he trembles out tired words that may have the power to break her heart.

 

“It's not working.”

 

“What isn't?” asks Trish. Can't bear to voice what she thinks is going to be Danny's answer to her question. She needs to know all the same, even when it feels as though the air itself escapes her and her lungs don't work right. Shudders and steels herself before turning to face them. “What isn't working?”

 

“Healing him. Healing Ward.” Colleen answers when Danny cannot, as is their custom. “I thought.. with the Iron Fist having healing powers.. and Ward's death being supernatural in origin... I thought it was worth a chance.” The young girl's voice sounds uncertain now that Danny's face crumbles into despair. “I'm sorry. I wish there was something we could do..”

 

Trish blinks back tears of her own. “Here,” she says instead, finally taking a step toward them, “let me.”

 

She is not sure about what she means by that until she is kneeling beside her lover's body and grasping Danny's hands in her own. Her heart is in her throat, but she doesn't cry. She knows she'll be lost if she does.

 

_Ward_ will be lost if she does.

 

Jeri Hogarth withdraws from them as she gently lays Ward's head down in the earth and blooming flowers that have erupted beneath her. The lawyer's hand squeezes Danny's shoulder briefly for a moment. “Take your time,” she murmurs. Trish almost laughs – hysterical, out-of-place, terrible laughter – when she realises Marci is never going to believe that her boss can sound this empathic. “I will take care of the rest for now.”

 

“Thank you,” says Colleen, answering for both Danny and Trish with steadfast and practiced ease. The martial arts teacher rises to her feet and lets out a sigh. “Let me help you with that, before they get swamped by well-meaning people..”

 

“Just you and me, huh,” whispers Trish to Danny as the women walk off and leave them. She can't bear to think of it as them leaving Danny and her with Ward's body. “You, me, and Ward..”

 

“He would've wanted that,” hiccups Danny, pulling his hands out of her grasp and wiping his tears away. His shoulder bumps against hers in a gesture that's meant to be comforting. “We're the closest thing he had to.. to a family.”

 

“We still are.” She's sure of that. Sure now that Harold Meachum's chokehold on his son has faded to reddish hues that are easily chased away and to scars that heal a little further with every bit of time that passes. Sure now that Ward talks about his mother as though he is finally given space to grieve her passing. Sure now that he has not seen or heard from his sister in months, citing irreconcilable differences between them that never sound like good enough reasons why. “You more than me,” she says, bumping her own shoulder gently back into him. “You're like his really annoying younger brother.”

 

Danny laughs through his tears. “You're the best in-law,” he states matter-of-factly, electing to ignore the fact that Ward and Trish never married. “He was so much happier when he was with you. I didn't even know he could laugh that much until that time you were doing impressions of famous people and finally decided Roadrunner was a famous person too.”

 

“Oh my god,” moans Trish, remembering that one night Danny had stayed over after suffering some injuries, “I can't believe you're bringing that up! If there was ever a reason for me to permanently quit drinking, that would be it.” She shakes her head, laughing at the memory of her pitch-perfect rendition of Roadrunner's annoying _meep meep_ that had left Ward breathless as he laughed until he cried. “What got me about it most was that he let me go through the full Roadrunner run of noises before admitting that the damn coyote was his favourite cartoon character of all time.”

 

“I didn't want to be the one to tell you that!” Danny laughs harder now, too, probably remembering that night just as vividly as she is. “Harold never let him watch that stuff and he pretended to hate it whenever he came over, but I caught him sneaking glances at Roadrunner every time Joy and I watched it.”

 

“He sketched Roadrunner for me once,” she hums, smiling as she recalls the drawing that's currently stuck to her fridge. “It was on one of these tiny cards that came with the heap of flowers he got me after he walked out on me in the hospital. I didn't notice it until the second day.” She snorts out a laugh, remembering what else was on the card. “He wished me a speedy recovery, can you believe it?”

 

Danny lets out a short, surprised laugh and wraps his arms around her briefly. “You love him so much,” he says, then, and her eyes fill with tears at the understanding tone in his voice. “I don't think I realised until the first time I saw the two of you in one room after you really got together. It was Colleen's birthday, do you remember?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Ward's never been that good with her, but they're growing on each other.” The warrior sounds certain of it, even when Colleen's last real exchange with Ward was a discussion about business ethics that had Ward foaming at the mouth in fury by the time she was done. Trish smiles at his optimism nonetheless. “I already thought you were good for him, but when you put just one hand on his arm and looked at him.. I swore to Colleen later that I could see your chi flowing between you more rapidly than I'd ever seen it. You feel the same as him, to a degree, but different enough to complement him.” Danny sounds sheepish as he attempts to tell her what he means. “I don't know how to explain that.”

 

“I think I know.”

 

And she does know, when she contemplates it. Thinks she's sensed it from the very first meeting onward. There's a sense of kinship between herself and this man lying before her that she can't explain with any kind of rational thought. All she knew back then, in that bar, was that she wanted more of this. Wanted to get to know him. Now that she's had this, she's not prepared to give it back to the universe. She's not willing to give him up.

 

The crow that attempted to perch on Jess's head lands before them on the other side of Ward's body. Its eyes are hauntingly familiar, born of the woman fate designed to become the Black Sky. Trish's own eyes flutter shut as the bird's gaze fixes on her. Her words form only one word, in the hopes that this time the woman will pay her prayers heed.

 

“Please.”

 

Danny's sharp intake of breath has her opening her eyes again. She blinks when dark coalesces into a familiar form before them. Elektra's eyes open, dark as crow's wing before a spark of light emits from them, and the woman smiles at them.

 

“Elektra?” The Devil's voice intercedes, wondering, even though his hands still touch the woman's dead body at the place she fell in. Trish winces as the man's voice breaks on his next question. “How... _how_?”

 

“Matthew,” the woman whispers, and her lips caress the name with all the love she has ever given him. Her smile is sad when she gazes at the Devil. “I am only here for a short while, my love.”

 

“You're not alone.” Danny's sharp observation has Trish frowning. “It's not the Black Sky, is it?”

 

“No, it is not.” Elektra's gaze is steady when she looks at them. Steadier still when she looks down at Ward. She repeats herself once more. “I cannot stay long.”

 

“You're still dead, aren't you?” asks Trish softly. “You've been dead since you first succumbed to your injuries on that rooftop.”

 

The woman inclines her head just once in affirmation.

 

“I am sorry.” Trish finds herself offering the apology freely, even though Elektra's first death happened through no fault of hers. Does not know how the Devil is still breathing, even as his energy spikes into grey hues of distress. She knows loss like this all too well, now. “I'm sorry you did not get to live.”

 

“I lived, I loved, what more is there?” Elektra's laugh comes with ease, stretching across her lips languidly like a cat basking in the sunshine. There is a spark in her eyes that belies her death. “I could not ask for anything else.”

 

“But I–” She almost doesn't find the strength to say it. Steels herself against the truth and speaks anyway. Danny's hand in hers helps her say the impossible. “I killed you again just now.”

 

“Body, not soul. The way back to it was shut for me. Closed to me.” Elektra sounds kinder than she has heard the woman in the Devil's memories, though flashes of annoyance curl around her words if she listens a little too closely. “You _helped_.”

 

She wants to shake it off, tell the woman she's mistaken, but something stays her tongue. She almost laughs as she realises she is speaking to a ghost. Just another day in her life. Her hand curls around Ward's clothes reflexively. She wipes her tears away best she can with the other, feeling like she is standing on the edge of something that will make her fall a long way down. She doesn't feel like she helped at all. Doesn't feel like there's going to be an end to the days that follow this one.

 

He is gone, and she lives, and none of this is fair.

 

“I just.. tried,” she finally says. “Tried to help. That's all.”

 

It does not feel like any of it was enough.

 

“Merci.” Trish blinks at Elektra in confusion as the woman responds to her words oh-so-casually. She can't tear her eyes off of the woman whose gaze edges ever closer to twilight. Elektra smiles a sad smile full of grace. Bends over Ward's body, rests her forehead against Trish's, grasps his hand and Trish's hand as tightly as she can. “ _Merci_.”

 

Elektra's lilting French for a moment almost sounds like _mercy_.

 

It hangs in the air between them for a moment. Cold air brushes her hair, strokes her cheeks, rests against Trish for a moment in farewell. She opens her bright eyes to Elektra's dark now that the woman's spirit withdraws from her a fraction. Then, Elektra smiles anew. She finds herself smiling back through her tears, through her loss, through her heartache.

 

_Mercy, mercy, mercy,_ the air cries out. _Merci, mercy, merci,_ chants death in the cadence of a song. Trish hears multitudes in the space of the abyss that turns and grows within her. Wonders if this is what it is to be a vessel. Wonders if this is the grand terror and awe of it all.

 

Elektra's lips find hers. There is no pressure within them. They simply rest there, cold lips against warm, tingles shooting up and sparking between them, until there is something _more_.

 

Trish gasps out a shocked breath against the woman's lips when brightest, loveliest, calmest blue blossoms forth within the kiss. It is a ghost on her lips, brushing over her skin before tendrils of it sneak into her hair and dance across her cheeks in familiar patterns. She knows this blue. Would know it anywhere in the universe for as long as she lives. She scrambles to deepen the kiss, needing to know the origins of the sky that is unfolding before her, clinging to a hope she dares not name or give voice to.

 

He is there with her.

 

Starlight shines in Elektra's eyes as the woman pulls away. Galaxies curve at the woman's smile before leaping into the empty space between them. Trish somehow finds her voice long enough to rasp out a “thank you”, even as her lips begin to tingle and brightest pink shoots across the galaxy that's spreading out and evolving before her eyes.

 

The woman nods only once. Looks past Trish to where Trish knows the Devil stands his vigil. Her lips form a single word, a name, a prayer. _Matthew.._

 

Elektra's life fades out before them to a single, anguished cry.

 

The galaxy remains. Trish extends shaking hands toward the orb it is rapidly encasing and shaping itself in. Greets it in hello, greets it with colours of sunrise, greets it with all her love even when her heart strains against her chest and her eyes still do not believe what they witness. Her hands touch the sides of the orb reverently. Her fingers tremble, her palms grow hot and sticky with sweat, her skin feels as though it is peeling back all the hardened shields she has created for herself over the years.

 

Blue and yellow shoot up into her hands and flare to life on her skin. Green blooms for a moment before golden, peach-flavoured, whiskey-brown streaks swivel around her in silent vigil. She lets out a laugh, shaky, wondering, as purples and reds wage a temporary war around her waist before coming to rest upon her shoulders like a cloak of dawn.

 

She brings the orb to her lips.

 

He comes to life around her the second her lips brush the multitudes of stars. Loving pink trembles on her lower lip before daring orange captures her whole. Blue weaves itself into her hair as though his hands are braiding through it and tugging on loose strands all the while. Her cheeks are wet and her throat claws at a sound of longing upon his touch.

 

She remembers him to life.

 

_Our first meeting,_ she thinks wildly, and is surprised to find that her vision does not coalesce into the familiar sight of a rather shady bar.

 

“ _Watch it!”_

 

“ _Sorry!” The boy actually has the grace to look a little embarrassed, though he does not mumble his apology and delivers it with force instead. Patches of red splotch his cheeks for a moment. His voice lowers. “Are you okay?”_

 

_Trish, coquettish, young, already used to commanding a room with nothing more than a few well-placed words and smiles, gazes back at him in confusion. “Of course,” she says slowly, wondering why this strange boy asks her something so personal. Her hand strays to the bruises on her ribcage just a moment. “Why wouldn't I be?”_

 

“ _You looked sad, earlier,” he says, and purses his lips abruptly in visible disgust shortly after. He fidgets on the spot. Rakes a hand through his too-long dark hair. “Just.. forget I said anything, okay? Forget it.”_

 

“ _Already forgotten,” she says. Smiles her first genuine smile of the night, despite the fact that he has seen something in her she wanted to hide. Or, maybe,_ because _he saw it. She dares not think of that. “Watch where you're going next time.”_

 

_The boy smiles back. “I might.”_

 

She remembers that night now. Almost does not want to admit she had spent the nights and parties that followed looking for that strange boy who had apologised and seen right through her. Admits it regardless to the blue that has come to swirl on her lips.

 

Trish thinks she's always been half in love with him. Thinks there's not a universe in which she won't be able to find him. Admits it to the red that stains their fingertips until it is washed away from their skin. Spits it in the face of her mother, who'd always cautioned her to never fall in love. Spits it in the face of his father, who'd always claimed love was for the weak and unwise.

 

She's never felt stronger than in this moment.

 

Her hand brushes through Ward's hair, caresses the loose strands that have come to rest on his forehead, skims over his creased brow. She smiles at the twilight that lurks in his still-unseeing eyes now. There is promise in the light that gleams and reflects back at her. She inhales the stars until the orb between her hands is no more.

 

The universe is on her lips, swirls on her breath, dances across her tongue. She's caught in a nebula of seafaring skyscraping blue, captivated in the hues of bright and dark, captured somewhere between earth and sky.

 

“ _Sshh, it's okay. It's okay.” She breathes the words out softly, not wanting to upset the very precarious balance she has struck with him for now. “I'm not going to hurt you.”_

 

“ _I feel stupid,” he complains, shoulders stiffening even further underneath her touch. He sounds almost angry at himself. “I should be able to accept a hug from a friend.”_

 

_She hums soft assent to that, though she knows all too well how difficult accepting such a thing can be. “To be fair,” she murmurs, “we've not known each other that long yet. Few weeks, right?”_

 

“ _Right. Still..”_

 

_She almost withdraws from him when the tension doesn't leave his body. The last thing she wants to do is invade his space and make him uncomfortable in his own skin. She stops withdrawing from him when his hand tentatively comes to rest on the small of her back. Thinks she stops breathing for just a moment when his arm wraps around her shoulders and he pulls her closer to him. She's careful to let him dictate the embrace. Trembles when he lays his head on her shoulder and just rests there._

 

“ _You okay?” she whispers when the tension in his frame slowly dissipates. “We good?”_

 

_He mumbles out contented noises and buries his face in the crook of her neck. His breath is hot on her skin when his arms tighten around her and pull her against him fully. “All good,” he breathes into her hair, sending a shiver down her spine when a part of his voice lodges itself in her ear. “This is good.”_

 

Trish smiles at the memory of the first time she dared hug Ward in greeting. Marci's convinced that this makes her the mom-friend of the group, always pulling those closest to her into her arms, but she thinks it's just common sense. Her lips curl into a soft half-smile as the stars move between them.

 

She lowers her head to his. Her nose brushes against his. Her hair curtains their faces as it tumbles down into the bed of flowers he rests on. Her smile refuses to die on her lips. The stars refuse to move into day's oblivion. They're bright even within the first rays of sunshine that glide over their skin, setting the gold and peach-toned hues of it alight with sparks of white and nebulas of perpetual colours.

 

Her hands come to rest on either side of his face. She sucks in a breath at how cold and lifeless it feels to the touch even now. Her thumb traces the edges of his mouth in search for that smile he reserves only for her. Slowly, surely, she presses her lips against his.

 

It should have been a kiss goodbye, but she has never been good at allowing farewells to happen.

 

He is there with her. She knows this with almost embarrassing certainty, born of all the time she's spent in his company, born of the fact that there's not a place of his body she doesn't know, born of the many nights she explored his mind and ideas in half-arguments and half-reverence. He is there even when his lips are cool as marble, when his hands don't come up to thread themselves within her hair, when he remains still beneath her.

 

For a moment, she thinks Elektra's _thank you_ meaningless.

 

A warm breath mingles with her own the next moment. Tumbles freely from his lips into her mouth as though it's never done anything else. She inhales a breath, shocked, as the stars fall against him and collide with his skin. Withdraws from him long enough to see entire galaxies collapse upon him. Constellations of stars swirl back toward him, spinning forth his presence, returning his life and memory to him.

 

Her fingers brush the side of his face before coming to rest in his hair. She nudges another kiss against his lips. Feels as though she's going to fall into this moment forever, as though she belongs in this space with him for the rest of her life. A strangled, choked-out sob escapes her when his lips press back against hers with the softest touch.

 

Trish lifts her head and drops her hands from his face. Light blossoms within his gaze until it chases all the dark away from his eyes. Greens, blues, and amber gold come to rest within them anew. She watches life itself return to his face. Watches him return to his body.

 

She still dares not hope. Dares not breathe.

 

“Ward?”

 

Her voice is a wisp of air on the wind, barely audible and fragile enough to break all over again. She dares not repeat his name a second time, for fear of breaking the spell that brought life back to his eyes. Her hands curl around his. She starts at the warmth in them, flaring back into existence, tightening around her as his fingers interlace with her own for a moment.

 

“There you are,” he breathes.

 

Her eyes close at the sound briefly. _I've been looking for you,_ her mind supplies, then, curling desperately around the spark of life that is steadily blossoming inside him, and her eyes fly back open in the next breath. She lets out a laugh when his own eyes brighten and his mouth curves into the half-smile she loves more than any smile in the world. Her face crinkles with joy as she takes him in.

 

He's alive. He's impossibly, incomparably _alive_.

 

“Hi,” she finally says, smiling so widely she thinks her cheeks will hurt from the strain of it.

 

“Hi,” he croaks out, raising his hand until he catches the ends of her hair in his grasp.

 

She chokes out a sob as he smiles up at her. Crashes to his chest and rests her head against his heart. Tears spill out of her eyes as his arms wrap around her tightly. He cradles her close to him, blues and pink-hued purples holding her in place when she finally dares exhale. His heart beats strong, even patterns into her ear as his breath flits across her skin.

 

He's here, he's alive, and her heart sings with equal parts exhaustion and joy.

 

Danny's laugh follows after, coated in relief and joy, and roars to life within the presence of a new day. She finds herself laughing along with the warrior as he scrambles to his feet and drops to his knees on Ward's other side rapidly before collapsing on top of them in relief. His curly hair brushes her face as he comes to rest beside her.

 

“Hi,” croaks Ward out, sounding mildly fussed at having more than one person lying on top of him now, “Danny, for the love of–”

 

“Don't scare me like that again,” says the warrior, not even bothering to let Ward finish his sentence. For a moment, Trish can see the child Danny used to be shining out from behind his eyes. “I thought you were _dead_.”

 

“I think I was.” Ward sounds so confused that Trish sits up and takes his hand in hers supportively. “What.. what brought me back? You didn't..”

 

“We're not The Hand,” laughs Trish, relief flooding her voice at how he sounds like he's right back to his normal self again. “Danny brought life back to the world. Elektra's spirit gifted me with you.” Her fingers gently trace patterns over his skin. “It's a long story that I'll tell you all about... It's a lot to take in now.”

 

“But I'm not... I'm not..” He inhales sharply. Panic lodges itself behind his eyes as he gestures helplessly at himself. She doesn't know what he means at first. Not until he clarifies, not until the ghost that haunts him comes to light. “I'm not my dad. I don't want to be. I don't want.. Do I.. Do I become like him, now?”

 

Her heart breaks for him all over again. Sharp shards lodge themselves in her chest. “Oh, sweetheart, no, never!” Her reply is immediate and as firm as she can possibly make it. Ward will never be like Harold Meachum. Not in his lifetime, not while she has any say over it. “You were brought back to life because of our love for you. _Through_ our love of you.” She shares a knowing look with Danny as Ward's face crumples into equal parts relief and distress. “Hey. We'd never let that happen to you. Danny and I, we would sooner die than let you become anything like that. Do you hear me?”

 

“Damn straight,” says Colleen's voice from behind them. Trish is amused to detect some form of rare relief in the girl's tone as well. “If you don't trust them to tell you the truth, trust Hogarth and me when we say there was nothing bad about you coming back to life.”

 

“Except the fact that you were brought back to life,” cuts Jeri Hogarth's dry voice in, though nobody present believes her words for a moment. Even Ward scoffs out a dry laugh at them. “Thank you for saving me from the mountain of Rand-related paperwork.”

 

“Told you I'd keep his ass safe,” grins Trish, winking conspiratorially at Ward. “Now he can fill out his own paperwork.”

 

“Oh fuck,” says Danny loudly, “don't we own half this block?”

 

“Dollar for the swear jar!” shouts Jessica, even as Ward nods warily in reply to Danny's question. “You're almost overtaking Matty at this point with your potty mouth, Iron Giant.”

 

“It's Iron Fist.”

 

Jess shoots him a look as she crashes to her knees beside him. “No, it's not,” her sister says determinedly. “I have used the phrase _fisting_ too much in recent memory thanks to you. I'm officially changing your name. All in favour say 'aye'.”

 

Ward's the first to quip out an 'aye', which makes her sister pat his arm with considerably more affection than she's ever had for him. Trish is the second, grinning at Danny and mouthing a “thank you” to him simultaneously, and Colleen is not far behind.

 

“See, motion carries.”

 

“The fuck it does!”

 

“Swear jar!”

 

Ward pushes himself into a seated position now that Jess and Danny begin to squabble among themselves. “Dying changes nothing,” he reflects with some degree of marvel in his voice. “They're still the same insufferable siblings they've always been.”

 

“Don't I know it.” Trish grins at him. “I'm happy you're here.”

 

“Happy to be here, I think?” He blinks in confusion as he takes in his surroundings, which are considerably greener and more floral than they have any right to be. Blinks against the light of the sun, bright overhead again as the day starts anew around them, and shakes his head at the remainders of chaos around them. “Do I even _want_ to know what happened here?”

 

“If you all figure out whatever happened here,” answers Misty, “let me know, 'cause I've got nothing. I don't think I can report any of this in a way that _won't_ sound batshit insane.”

 

The sound of running footsteps makes Trish tear her eyes away from Ward. She senses nothing but marine blue from the person who's approaching them fast. Smiles in relief when the colour crashes into her right before the woman herself does.

 

“Oh thank god, thank _god_.” Karen's long arms wrap around Trish and Ward tightly as soon as she reaches them. Ward makes a faint noise of protest at the reporter's tight hold. “I thought I was going to lose you. Thank god you're both alive.”

 

“You too,” murmurs Trish, wrapping her own arms around the woman's exhausted-looking form. Whispers an urgent question into Karen's ear. “Is he safe?”

 

“In the wind,” says Karen, smiling back reassuringly. “The rest of the guys from IGH that were holed up in and around this block made a clean break for it, so naturally he's on the warpath..”

 

“Naturally.” Ward does not sound disapproving, for once, though Trish thinks Frank Castle will never really be anything other than a necessary evil to him. He raises an eyebrow, taking in the bruise that's blooming on Karen's cheek and the woman's reddened eyes and lips. “Are you all right?”

 

“Better than you.” Karen raises an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to disagree. “You know, I said to Misty months ago that I wouldn't be surprised if you two wound up getting into trouble before long.”

 

“I shoulda listened,” says the cop, shaking her head and smiling faintly. All mirth disappears from her voice as quickly as it came when her gaze fixes on something behind them. “Oh, here we go..”

 

A deep and rather oily voice interrupts their friendly chatter. Trish huffs out an incredulous scoff at the man's words, directed at Karen as they are. Wonders what on earth makes the man think it's a smart idea to single the reporter out from the rest of them, as though the rest of them walk free from this disaster. Thinks the man might have it out for Karen. Isn't sure on what to do about that information, but Jeri Hogarth just might if the sour look on the woman's face is anything to go by.

 

“You're in deep trouble, Miss Page.”

 

Karen turns to look at DA Williamson with equal parts confusion and disdain written across her face. “Enlighten me,” she clips out tiredly. Her fingertips tap a steady pace against the hem of her skirt. “I doubt it's bigger than the world almost ending.”

 

“You came down from the balcony. The same balcony that has seen _massive_ gunfire coming from it throughout the events of the day. The same balcony from which there came not just one but hundreds of fairly accurate shots.”

 

“Congratulations, you didn't fail Geography 101,” mutters Karen under her breath. Louder, she responds with a sharp “so what?” that has the man almost recoiling from her. Trish is no stranger to Karen's sharper tones, but this one is steeped in blood red protection and darker violet all the way through. It's soaked through and through with the love the woman bears for the impossible.

 

“So, I have every reason to believe that you murdered several people in cold blood tonight.”

 

“ _That_ wasn't me.” Karen does not even blink. She doesn't even pause before she responds, and yet manages to make her reply sound genuine instead of rehearsed. The blonde sounds almost insulted at the implication of his words, raising her eyebrow imperiously and staring the District Attorney down until he starts to fidget. “Those shots were fired by the Punisher.”

 

“The Puni–” The DA shakes his head in disbelief. Half-turns to the very few members of the police force who still believe his every word. “Comb the area. Find him!”

 

Hogarth is not impressed. “If Castle was not gone yet, he would make himself scarce now that you've yelled about his hunting party at the top of your voice. It's a waste of resources to go after him when we have this much going on right in front of us.” The lawyer's arm sweeps the air in a wide, all-encompassing motion as she attempts to indicate the remnants of Midland Circle. “For god's sake, Williamson, stop listening to fear and start listening to facts!”

 

Trish tunes the ensuing argument out with the practiced ease of someone who's used to picking important information out of long-winded conversations. Most of the talk between the DA and Hogarth turns technical before long, citing a dozen different laws and regulations Trish never bothered to learn. Even Ward, with his interest in legal affairs, finally rolls his eyes and turns away from them.

 

“Can we go now?” asks Colleen, eyeing Hogarth and Williamson warily. She sounds strangely hesitant, even though her hand is still curled around her katana. “Or do we have to wait for them to cuff us and cart us off to jail?”

 

“I'm not doing that again,” mutters Luke. “Let's just walk off. I pity the first person who tries to stop us.”

 

They do just that. Trish watches, amused, as Hogarth waves her fingers at them in farewell – true proof that the woman has eyes in the back of her head, as Jessica has always claimed – before rounding on the DA and clipping out a series of orders and requests that could put Marci's coldest moments to shame. If anything, the lawyer is making it easier for them to escape now that most of the first responders are kept busy with their investigation or are just enjoying the incompetent DA being taken to task by one of the fiercest women in existence.

 

Danny and Luke help Ward to his feet wordlessly as Claire starts to direct the first responders away from them with all the ER-born authority her voice can muster. Trish rises seconds later, leaning on Karen slightly in exhaustion. The woman squeezes her side reassuringly.

 

“Marci's never going to believe this,” says her friend, laughing a soft and brilliant laugh that twinkles through the air. “She's going to come back from holiday and immediately request another one. I think _that_ might rile Jeri up more than the DA is currently doing.”

 

“Oh god, you're not wrong,” laughs Trish, fingers intertwining with Ward's briefly as they start to walk away from Midland Circle. She has the relentless urge to cling to him and never let go again. If the deathgrip on her hand is anything to go by, he feels the same way. With some effort, she redirects her attention back to Karen. “We need to call her. Let her know we're okay.”

 

“Already on it,” says Jess from behind them, holding a phone to her ear. At the women's incredulous looks, she adds: “What? Marci's all right. Better than Hogarth if I need to be bailed out of trouble.”

 

“That's probably why she was complaining about grey hairs when I saw her last!” roars Misty in amusement, even as Jessica starts complaining about phones going to voicemail and clips out a hurried “we are all alive, get your asses back here” into the receiver before hanging up. Misty surveys them all one by one as she comes to a halt at the edge of the police perimeter. “You're all the worst and I am going to _bury_ you in paperwork.”

 

“Good luck with that. If you need anything, remember..”

 

“Luke..”

 

“Just being helpful,” shrugs the taller man. “Thank you for everything.”

 

The rest of the group echoes their gratitude to the first responders around them, surprised to find that even the New Yorkers did not dare venture closer to the barricade. The slowly gathering crowd is some sizable distance away from them, still, and Trish has absolutely no doubt that between Matt and Jess they will be able to make a clean getaway before long. (The two Defenders have always been the most reluctant about being in the public eye. She's not sure on where she stands on that herself, not yet, but right now she just wants to enjoy the presence of the people she loves more than anything.)

 

Mahoney and his partner nod a greeting that could very well be gratitude in turn as the Defenders and their closest friends duck under the police tape and set their first steps away from the scene. Relief floods Trish's legs and makes her feel almost shaky as the tight band of anxiety finally loosens enough to let her breathe again.

 

She's glad to be alive. Wants to sing it out loud. Wants to shout it off the fucking rooftops, all polished decorum be damned, and have the rest of the world celebrate it with her.

 

“How's everyone doing?” asks Claire, catching up with them and checking each of them in turn. Trish undergoes the woman's fussing readily. “Matt? Luke?”

 

“I'm doing,” replies Luke good-naturedly, just as Matt quips a “not dead yet” that has Jessica snorting out laughter. The Devil's tones are still darker than Trish is used to hearing from him, even when he's trying to sound like he's fine. Karen's knit brow tells her the woman's not convinced he's doing okay, either, but Matt doesn't seem to be in the mood to talk about any of it.

 

“How about you?” asks Claire, fixing Ward with her best nurse-stare. “You just died and came back to life. Rejuvenated or not?”

 

Ward shakes his head warily. “I don't know about any of you,” he says, “but I think I could sleep for a _week_.”

 

“You _Sleeping Beauty-_ ed your way through almost the entire battle,” replies Jess, eyeing Ward with all the incredulity she normally reserves for Danny's appetite. “ _How_ are you tired, exactly?”

 

“Dying is hard work.”

 

“He's not wrong,” nods Luke sagely.

 

“When did you die?” Colleen looks up at Luke, confusion written over her face. “I don't remember you telling us any of that.”

 

“I had near-death experiences, okay?” The tall Defender clarifies them as he speaks, talking about exploding bullets and Jessica's shotgun glory as though they're just a regular day on the job. Knowing him, they probably are. “I gotta give it to you, man, I'm with you on the sleeping.” The man claps a hand on Ward's shoulder reassuringly. “I just want to have something to eat first.”

 

“Yes, please, I'm starving!”

 

“Danny, you're _always_ starving.”

 

“We should have a proper dinner sometime.” Karen sounds wistful, leaning her head against Trish's shoulder for just a moment. “All of us. Together.”

 

“Hell no!”

 

“Claire, I'm sure it's going to be okay,” chortles Matt, voice no longer sounding as hollow as it did before. Trish thinks the man may be an expert at compartmentalising his grief by now, because she doesn't even detect a tremble in his voice as he speaks. “The next apocalypse won't come until next week. We can have dinner on Sunday.”

 

“You're _not_ taking me to church.” Jessica, ever-concerned about the fate of her soul. “I vote Monday. Mondays suck. Just like all of you.” The dark-haired investigator's teeth glitter in the light as she smiles. “It's perfect.”

 

The Defenders squabble among themselves, with Claire interjecting mom-voiced reason when it sounds like Jess and Matt are going to settle their differences with their fists. Colleen and Karen trail after them, quietly discussing IGH and redacted files like two dogs with a bone. Even after all that fighting, they are still gearing up for the next battle. Colleen clings to Danny's hand tightly in the meantime, but always half-turns to shoot a new question at Karen that leads to even more discussion from the girls.

 

Trish watches them all fondly, letting them walk slightly ahead of her, smiling as their voices carry back to her in arguments and amusement.

 

“What do you think?” asks Ward quietly beside her, slipping his hand into hers again. She revels in the comfort of his touch. Vows to never let go of him. “Will they ever settle on a dinner date?”

 

“Claire will. The rest will follow.”

 

He snorts out an appreciative laugh. “You might be right.”

 

“I know I am.” She risks sounding just a little bit smug. Leans against his shoulder until he releases her hand and tucks her under his arm instead. She closes her eyes even as they walk, simply enjoying the closeness and warmth of him. Her heart squeezes in her chest for a moment. How easy it would have been to lose this. How likely the chances of her walking away from disaster alone. The realisation makes her draw even closer to him, looping an arm around his waist and pulling him tighter toward her. “Ward?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I could sleep for a week, too,” she confesses tiredly. Suppresses a yawn. “Just want to curl up with you and let the world be the world.”

 

“Do you think they'd notice if we just.. snuck away?”

 

She eyes the group for a moment. Takes in Karen's animated gestures, Claire rolling her eyes skyward, Danny lifting Jess off the ground in a hug while a bemused Colleen shakes her head, Luke talking quietly with Matt, and turns back to Ward with a smile on her face. Halts in her tracks, stands on tiptoe, and brushes a soft kiss against his lips that leaves him smiling down at her.

 

“Let's go.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all the excitement, it's time to wind down and get a bit of romance back in here. ;)

"Come here, sugar."

 

Marci's homecoming the next morning is like a warm bath Trish didn't even know she deserved or needed. Her arms wrap tightly around the blonde's waist as soon as she's good and well out of the car. She rests her cheek against the woman's shoulder selfishly for a moment, inhaling expensive perfume and the stray scent of the Turkish delight Foggy covets. Her fingers curl around Marci's jacket as the blonde pats her hair and utters comforting words of nonsense.

 

"Had a feelin' we needed to cut things short when I was soakin' in the tub yesterday and suddenly saw your face in the water clear as day," says the lawyer, launching into some kind of explanation as to how she and Foggy managed to get back into the city so quickly. "I felt you reach out to us. You're really the craziest person I know, girlfriend, and that's countin' one Matthew Murdock among 'em."

 

"Thank you," she says to Marci, never offended at the way the woman elects to express herself. "I'm sorry you had to cut your vacation short."

 

"Water under the bridge!" The woman waves off all concerns with ease. "Fogster received a riot act call from Hogarth anyway, somethin' about the DA being an absolute pancake?"

 

"He's trying to figure out how to press charges against us."

 

"Get out!"

 

"Like that's going to work," snorts Foggy behind Marci's back, looking for all the world like he can't wait to take the DA on. "Even if he has legal ground to stand on, there's still the matter of public opinion." He waves the newspaper he's holding in the air for a minute. Trish barely catches the headline before letting out a groan. "You are all heroes. You especially, Trish. There are some nice pictures in here, too."

 

"God knows how they even got these pictures," mutters Trish, eyeing the newspaper as though it's going to rear up and attack her. "Most people were too scared to venture close to Midland Circle's block."

 

"Don't know how they got those, either, but Jeri really liked the one shot of her ass," quips Ward, having just exited the office building of _Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz_. "Mr Nelson, Miss Stahl, good to see you. And I mean 'good to see you' as in 'Jeri is on a warpath', by the way."

 

Foggy actually blanches at that. Marci, not so much.

 

"Oh, you, the warpath can wait! First things first. Come here, come here!"

 

Trish bursts out laughing as Marci's arms wrap around Ward's tall frame and squeeze him tightly. Peals of laughter escape her and tears of joy pool in her eyes when Ward closes his eyes, murmurs a half-hearted curse, and finally wraps his own arms around the woman very briefly.

 

Marci holds him at arm's length next, looking him up and down with concern written all over her face. "Don't you die on us again, you hear me?" she says, voice sterner than Trish has ever heard it. "I will say this much, though, if you ever call me 'Miss Stahl' again you're gonna _wish_ you'd stayed six feet under, do you understand?"

 

"Crystal clear."

 

"I see what you mean about unruffled and pretty CEOs," says Marci loudly to Trish. "You'd never know he'd died and come back to life."

 

"I'll have you know it's beautiful cutthroat lawyers that stay alive for all eternity because they made a deal with the devil, not me."

 

Marci's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. "Either way, you look good," she says with a shrug. Amends her statement slightly. "For someone who just died and all."

 

"Should I be concerned?" asks Foggy, smiling at the woman he loves with quiet joy in his eyes.

 

"Not yet," says Trish, letting it sound vaguely threatening in a way that makes Ward scoff out half a laugh, "but we'll keep a close eye on these two. It's _so_ good to see you, Foggy."

 

"You too, Trish," laughs the lawyer, hugging her briefly. "I'd better get into the office, though. With Jeri on the warpath... We'll catch up later, though, right? I want to hear all about it from a more reliable source than Matt's fragmented retellings."

 

"Do _I_ need to be worried?" Marci arches an eyebrow. "If you want a reliable source, why not ask Karen?"

 

"Karen was with Frank." Trish is careful to keep her voice down, as always when the subject turns to the woman's association with the Punisher. "Wasn't on the ground with the rest of us. DA's still pissed she took him to task not too long ago, so he's trying to make her charges even worse than ours."

 

"Over my dead fucking body." Marci's words come out in a snarl as the woman turns on her heel. Trish spies a sharklike smile on her friend's face as she stalks up the steps toward the office. "Come along, Foggybear. We've got a DA to annihilate."

 

"Is it bad that I almost pity the DA?" asks Ward conversationally as Foggy hurries after Marci. "Between her and Jeri.."

 

"All charges are going to be dropped."

 

*****

 

It takes another full week before they finally receive confirmation that most of the charges against them are indeed being dropped. There is a small sum to be paid to the city for the destruction of city-owned property, but Rand Enterprises is fielding that as a business expense given their ownership of half the buildings on the affected block. Marci sounds just a little bit smug over the phone, though Trish is quick to hang up when the woman starts to prattle on about the things she's going to do to Foggy that night. (Apparently, Foggy had had a stroke of genius that resulted in Karen's full exoneration with apologies from the DA. Trish doesn't dare inquire further, given Marci's excitable state of mind.)

 

Trish stretches out on the couch with a groan and puts her feet up on Ward's coffee table without a second thought. She has had nothing but long days the past week. Between the impending threat of possible legal action and the many hours spent at _Trish Talk_ , she's hardly had any time to come up for air. Ward's not faring a whole lot better, if his short texts during the day and his sleep-deprived attempts to bicker with her at all hours of the morning are anything to go by.

 

From what she can tell now that she hears him walk through the front door, Ward's annoyance has shifted from her to someone else.

 

"–too important to leave up to chance and no, Danny, you can _not_ walk into that meeting with half of the spreadsheet done and Megan ad-libbing you the remaining numbers from her position near the door. Why? Because it's not professional, that's why. No, I know that. Don't move tomorrow's two o'clock to five o'clock, you're going to be there all night if Bradford starts prattling on for hours about something you and me could've said in two minutes tops. Why we're not letting Bradford go? Because he is the only one who can stand the Yegerton account, that's why, and he's so old that I think letting him go might actually _kill_ him. No, Danny, I am not exaggerating – okay, uhhuh, give my regards to Colleen. Why? Because she's saving me from you right now, that's why. Thanks. Uhhuh. Bye."

 

Trish hides a grin as she hears an exasperated Ward groan out a string of complaints starting with "why me" and ending with "I'm too old for this" the second he hangs up the phone. She thinks that Danny Rand will be the cause of all of Ward's grey hairs one day in future, though she's likely to be a close second in that respect.

 

"Hi honey," she laughs, taking in Ward's rather haggard appearance as he walks into the room. His hair has come undone from the stiffly gelled look she still cannot stand and stray strands of it brush past his cheekbones as he leans forward to unlace his shoes and kick them off. His tie's the second to go, being tossed onto the chair unceremoniously as he makes his way over to her space on the couch. Somehow, he's already lost his jacket between here and the door. "Danny's stuff keeping you occupied again?"

 

"He's going to be the death of this company," Ward gripes before he leans down and gives her a quick kiss. "How was your day?"

 

"Uneventful," she smiles back as he flops down onto the couch and scoots over until his body's pressed against her side. She wraps an arm around his shoulders and brushes a kiss against his brow. "The massive slew of callers demanding to know more about my superpowers has abated somewhat, at least."

 

"That's good, then."

 

"Are you done getting angry about everything?" She's careful to keep her voice quiet, especially when she feels him stiffen under her touch and hears him suck in a large amount of air. The tips of her fingers caress his shoulder in small circular motions as she brushes another kiss against his cheek. Thinks she understands what's causing the tension when he goes rigid under her kiss and refuses to meet her eyes after. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm not mad at you."

 

"You should be," he mutters darkly, expelling a sharp breath when her hand comes to rest in his hair. "I've been a pain in the ass all week."

 

"You were stressed. We all were. Hell, I picked a fight with you the other night because I couldn't find my shoes." Her cheeks redden at the memory. "Last week took a lot out of all of us. I haven't gone a single day without Jess calling me once every two hours to make sure I'm still breathing."

 

"Stress isn't an excuse." He makes it sound so definite, as though he has resigned himself to the idea that he's poison to her happiness. "You don't have to be okay with any of that."

 

"I'm not okay with it, but I understand it. How's that?"

 

"Still bad." He laughs humourlessly while his mouth curves downward. "Honestly don't know how you stand me."

 

"You're not _that_ bad, boyfriend," she warns, wishing she could drive the remnants of red that streak past his brow away with a gesture or word alone. They are both not free of their demons, no matter how much she wishes the future doesn't hold such darkness for either of them. "I just think... maybe we should talk about what happened? We haven't, really, and I don't know.." She trails off uncertainly. Hates how small her voice sounds when she talks. "It might help?"

 

He is quiet for a long time. So quiet that the only sound that reaches her ears, that tells her he's still alive at all, is his slightly uneven breaths. Dark pink wraps around her hands and shoulders as he shudders and leans into her touch. It's only the feeling of his warm body resting against hers that reassures her that her question was not a terrible thing to ask.

 

Trish decides to wait him out, even when her mind runs together with a bunch of follow-up questions and there is a pressure building up in her skull behind her eyes that makes her realise she's still exhausted. She rubs her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose briefly. Presses a soft kiss to the top of his head when his head comes to rest on her chest.

 

"I asked dad once," he starts, then, and she sighs in relief when he continues talking, "what dying had been like. Not the actual feeling itself, but.. if there was an afterlife, or something. Like that white light at the end of tunnel, that sort of deal. I thought there'd have to be _something_." He scoffs softly. "He ridiculed me for it. Said there was pitch black nothingness and no more than that. Mocked me in that voice he reserved for when he thought I was being particularly dense. _'You didn't honestly think you'd get to see your_ mother _, did you?'_ " Ward's voice sneers out the words as though his father lives inside them still. Her hand comes to rest on his hair in comfort. "I thought, because he'd seen it.. because he'd died.. he was telling the truth."

 

"Maybe he was telling _his_ truth?" She ventures her words carefully, not wanting to upset the small balance he has found within himself that allows him to talk with her this way. "Why do you think he was lying?"

 

For a moment, Ward goes so quiet that she fears he is getting lost in his own memories. She breathes soft purples and blues atop his head, threads them through his hair best she can with her fingertips, caresses his skin with their featherlight presence. She doesn't speak. No words come to mind that would suffice. She's never been one to talk just for the sake of talking, though she's sure Jess would disagree on that the way she disagrees on everything else.

 

"That wasn't what I saw." His words come out haltingly, as though he doesn't know the right way to say them. "When I died. I _know_ I died. Jeri said she didn't feel a heartbeat. Claire said there was nothing she could do." He rasps out the words and lets out a great shuddering breath after. "I was dead, but I never felt like I was."

 

"What did you feel, then?" She has gone perfectly still under his inquisitive touch, his fingers skimming her ribcage, his hands tightening around her waist. He initiates closeness in a way that warms her skin and makes her stomach go all aflutter in a ridiculous impression of butterflies. "I never thought to ask what it'd been like for you... I was just so happy to have you back."

 

"Makes sense," he mumbles. A beat. Then: "It wasn't nothing. What I felt. I felt.. you know, that feeling when you wake up from sleep and you're wrapped tightly in warm blankets and there's that small space that's just for you?" She affirms it with a soft noise, willing him to keep talking. "That's how it was. Like I was safe. And warm." He almost chokes out the last word. "Loved."

 

"Your dad wouldn't know that feeling even if it smacked him in the face," she says decisively. "No wonder his afterlife was empty."

 

His next words take her breath away.

 

"I felt like it was my mom. In that warmth. It was.. like the way she used to wrap me up in her arms and hold me while she told me a bedtime story." He laughs softly, almost sheepishly, and nudges his nose against the nape of her neck. "And then it felt more like you, like being in bed with you or having you smile at me. And I came back the more it felt like you, the more it felt like you were drawing me in. I think that's how I came back."

 

"I think it was your mom, too." She smiles up at the ceiling and squeezes him to her a little tighter. "I think you're making her proud."

 

"I hope so. I'm going to make sure Rand steps into the future she always wanted for it. She always said to me that at its core it should always be about providing service to the community. That if we ever lost track of that, we would only ruin ourselves."

 

"She wasn't wrong."

 

"No, she wasn't, and it killed dad to hear her say it. To hear her impress it on me. With Joy, it always fell on deaf ears – Joy never listened to anything mom said, not when it was about business. Joy's more like dad that way. But I.. I think I am ready to listen, now."

 

"Want to know what I think?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"I think you're already listening."

 

*****

 

If there is one day she loves above all else, she thinks it may be a Sunday. The mornings are by far the best thing about them. Trish is happiest as she's ever been. She's perched atop her kitchen counter eating waffles and strawberries while Ward paces up and down in front of her in a half-dressed state while pontificating about the finer points of the look for Rand's new architecture office upstate.

 

"Do you think we'll get out of the city more that way?" She interrupts him mid-sentence, licking whipped cream off her spoon before pointing it at him. "You are always saying you want to do more with the actual architectural side of the business. We could go upstate every so often if that's not just you being all talk and no action."

 

He shoots her a long-suffering look. "It's not just talk, I assure you," he says sourly, "but there are a million details to work out about that."

 

She shrugs. "I'll start looking at upstate residences. Something small, not too remote, with easily installed security measures." Smiles at him when he huffs out an exasperated breath. "I told you, never mention an idea like that in front of me unless you want me to go berserk with the house-hunting. I'm _great_ at that."

 

"You're great at giving me grey hairs, too."

 

"Awh, I think you'd look wonderful with those," she teases while shovelling another waffle piece into her mouth. "Very distinguished."

 

"In all seriousness, we do need a break of sorts. We've been swamped with work over the past few days. Danny's likely to give me a conniption sooner or later if he keeps asking the most inane questions about Rand Enterprises."

 

"You should put him through business school."

 

Ward snorts at the suggestion. "And have his teachers lose faith in humanity's ability to survive? I'm always happy to pay for the shattering of mankind's delusions."

 

"Danny's not _that_ bad."

 

"Not that bad? Not that bad?" Ward throws his hands up in the air as he speaks. "He spent the majority of the last shareholder meeting bickering with Contracting about one specific business deal that was made twenty years ago. _Twenty_."

 

"Okay, so, he has a lot to learn. He can do it. He's smart enough for it."

 

Ward wordlessly steals a strawberry out of her bowl and pops it into his mouth. "Danny needs to finish high school first." He sounds almost petulant as he says it. "Fast-track him through that, then put him in at least one business class, and pray he doesn't royally mess things up inbetween because he's too busy _defending_ the city.."

 

"First things first," she says, shifting back to an earlier topic expertly, "what about _our_ break?"

 

"I may have an idea.." He says it slowly, almost as if he is testing the waters while he's not yet sure of the merit of it himself. "Why don't we.. get out of this city for a while? Not just go upstate, but somewhere else entirely?"

 

"Vacation?"

 

"Two weeks." He sounds surer now, though he still stares off into space and his eyes are fixed on a particular part of his living room wall. "Go somewhere warm, get some good food in, get away from work.."

 

".. and away from everything that might want us dead, still?"

 

He pauses. Contemplates. "That would be an added bonus," he admits begrudgingly. Snorts out a laugh shortly afterwards and shakes his head. "I've been planning an actual vacation since Danny came back from the dead. Somehow never seem to find the time for it."

 

"Let's make time. Just you and me." She's warming to the idea now, too. Thinks maybe what they need doesn't lie in the city, but in something that's just theirs and theirs alone. "Why don't we.." She hums and trails off as she contemplates the options. Finally comes to a conclusion. "Why don't we follow the idea of the gossip columns? They thought we were in the Seychelles before.."

 

"So if we go there now, nobody's going to bat an eyelash at our presence." Ward catches on quickly. "They will just assume that either we're back for another holiday, or they will flat-out not believe the gossip because they don't think we would have two holidays in a row."

 

"Exactly!"

 

She shivers in delight when his mouth finds hers and he kisses her with all the fervour of a man who loves her more than anything else in the world. A smile tugs at her lips when another kiss lands at the corner of her mouth as almost a perfect mirror of the first few kisses they ever shared. She wraps her legs around him possessively. Sets aside the bowl of strawberries, though she steals one last berry out of it and pops it into her mouth with a smirk.

 

"I love it when you taste like strawberries," he confesses after she kisses him.

 

"Love it when you tell me we're going to have a vacation on a sunny beach," she shoots back, smiling all the while. "I think we should book something as soon as possible. Get the hell out of dodge before the next apocalypse comes along."

 

"Agreed." He smiles a smile at her that's tinged with blue comfort throughout. "You," he claims, capturing her lips inbetween the words he grounds out, "are perfect."

 

"Yeah?" She's breathless now, and just a little on the side of giddy. Knows the fastest way to get him to keep kissing her is to play things coy and adopt a flirtatious tone. Does exactly this, smiling all the while when he pushes her further back onto the couch in response. "Why's that?"

 

"Three words." He holds up one finger. "Secluded." Adds another finger. "Beach." Raises another finger. "Getaway."

 

"Secluded, huh?" She smirks at him now. Loosely hooks one of her legs higher up around his body and teases out a kiss of her own. "Now, why would we need seclusion?"

 

His answer does not express itself in words.

 

*****

 

Trish isn't sure if it's their money or their fame that bought them a ticket to the Seychelles the next day, but she's sure as hell not complaining about that change of fortune for the better. She can't find it in herself to complain about anything anymore the first time her eyes meet the blue ocean and the greenery on the island they're staying on.

 

"I could stay here _forever_ ," she tells Ward at least five times a day, fueled by different experiences on the island that all have her smiling and breathless by the end of the day. "Scratch that holiday house upstate back home. This is where it's at."

 

Ward only ever laughs in reply, though she catches him sketching things in a small notebook he keeps on him at various times. At home, he draws nothing but architectural designs on restaurant napkins and spare pieces of paper. Here, architecture is replaced by tall trees and the vastness of the ocean. Once or twice, she thinks she spies herself in the drawings she catches only glimpses of. She's shy over that knowledge, not wanting to presume, but one night he does show her a sketch of herself smiling and she feels like the ground falls out from under her feet.

 

"I look far too perfect," she admonishes, staring at the spark he gave her eyes and the way the wind seems to move through her hair even though it's just pencils and paper that created such a likeness. "That's not me."

 

"Artistic liberty. How _I_ see you," he clarifies. Will hear nothing of a counterargument, either, though she is convinced he sees something nobody else can. "I think you look beautiful."

 

There's hardly anything she can say to that, though she feels anything but beautiful when the island's humidity clings to her skin like an extra layer and her hair starts to frizz and fray in the weather. The fact that they got tired of lazing around on the beach after the third day doesn't really help. After a failed experiment with surfboards that wound up with Ward complaining about the tightness of a wetsuit and Trish's eye almost blackened from an unfortunate dive into the water, they decided to leave the water for what it is and trek further inland.

 

Here she stands, now, halfway on a hiking trail, hair sticking to her flushed cheeks, and she thinks there are still all these little things about Ward Meachum that can surprise her. Her French is the rustiest it's ever been, coloured by years of only really using it in too-fancy restaurants, but Ward's French is a constant steady stream of fast-paced noise and fluidity. It's because of _this_ French that they're currently taking what the islanders had claimed was the shortest route to the best view of the entire island.

 

What they had neglected to mention was that it was also the steepest route.

 

Her fingers deftly sweep her hair back and pile it up high on her head in a vain attempt to look somewhat presentable. "Did you figure it out yet?" she asks, watching Ward fold the crudely sketched map back into his shirt pocket. "Don't tell me we have to walk back!"

 

"We're going to have to walk back eventually." He shrugs and rakes his own hair back with one hand as he turns to look at her. "The way down will be better. I think I have it figured out, though?”

 

“If you're going to lead me around in yet another circle, I am stealing that map off you,” she gripes, sinking down on a nearby pile of rocks and flexing her feet expertly. “I'd like to get there before sunset, you know..”

 

“It's the middle of the fucking day!” Ward gestures wildly at the clear blue sky, the sun overhead, the bright glare of the light streaking over their skin and streaming out onto the path before them. He exhales the air noisily through his nose in a clear gesture of annoyance. “I think that I can find my way around this small island before nightfall, don't you?”

 

She shrugs. “I don't know. Can you?”

 

“That's it.” He huffs out a breath. Turns on his heel demonstratively. “I'm leaving you behind _and_ I'm taking this map with me!”

 

“You can't do that. What if I get eaten by bears?”

 

“Walker, there are no bears on this damn island!”

 

“That's what they thought in that tv-show too,” she shoots back instantly, “and they almost got mauled by a polar bear for their troubles. Suit yourself, though, Meachum. You'd be lost without me and you know it.”

 

“If this is another one of those ' _I am the greatest good you will ever have_ '-speeches..”

 

“Hey, I only proclaim the truth.” She smiles up at him as soon as he turns around, all teeth and amusement, eyes crinkling behind her sunglasses. Pats the other pile of rocks next to her. “Sit with me for a moment.”

 

"If I sit down, I'm not moving another muscle for the rest of the day. Whose brilliant idea was this hike, anyway?” He walks over to her and seats himself regardless of his misgivings. Groans out a contented sound when he lifts his feet off the ground. “We probably shouldn't have done that morning run on the beach.”

 

“ _That_ was fun. This? Pure agony.” 

 

“It's not all bad.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Just look at the view.”

 

She finds it hard to argue with that when the island unfolds before their eyes from where they're sitting. Blues and greens, white sandy and earth-toned shades, and a rainbow of humanity's presence on the island all blur and blend together to create a new version of what she thinks paradise might have been like long ago. Her gift seems far away from her in these moments when nature itself drowns out all the colours she senses from the people around her.

 

“Do you want a sandwich?” she asks, sliding her backpack off her shoulders and digging into the haphazardly packed space in the hunt for food. “Or a juice pack?”

 

“You brought.. juice packs?”

 

He blinks as she triumphantly holds two packs of juice aloft. They're the most offensive packs she could find, adorned with cartoon characters for kids and garishly neon orange to boot, but they're easier to carry around than big bottles. She shakes one of the packs and holds it out for him to take. Trish will later swear she saw his eyes light up the second his hand wrapped around it, though he will deny it with as much vehemence as he can possibly muster.

 

“I also brought enough food for a small orphanage,” she comments, peering into her backpack and coming to the conclusion that she overpacked it the same way she overpacked her suitcase. “We could probably survive on this for about a week if we ration it.”

 

“Only you would think about going camping for a week in the middle of a tourist deathtrap like this island. And here I thought you were scared of bears?”

 

“You were the one who just assured me there aren't any.” She grins and stretches back on her pile of rocks. “There probably aren't. I mean, you would hear more about bear attacks if there were. Right?”

 

“I cannot believe I am discussing hypothetical bear attacks with you right now.”

 

“Hypothetically speaking, I think any self-respecting bear would turn its nose up at eating a tourist.”

 

“What?” He's laughing outright now, full belly laughs echoing around the small clearing, and snorts out his incredulity while wiping a stray tear away from his eye. “How do you even figure that?”

 

“Aside from the potential of tourists carrying foreign diseases a bear's.. uh.. _ecosystem_ can't tolerate,” she ponders, gesturing over the word 'ecosystem' because she's pretty sure it's not the right word to use in this instance, “most of the tourists I've seen on the beach look like overcooked shrimp. Bears prefer their meat raw.”

 

“Bears prefer..” He trails off wonderingly, shaking his head, laughing it off with a shake of his head. The look he shoots her is a great deal more affectionate than she thinks it's got any right to be. “Never change.”

 

She hums assent to his request, knowing that if she ever changes he will probably change to match her. They are like this: rolling with the punches life throws their way, surviving despite their quiet inner voices screaming and clamouring for their deaths all the while, banding together even when they are each other's mirror image rather than something new that keeps them on their toes. She sees herself in all his demons, curls around the scraps of light that he tries to hold onto, and confides even the most ridiculous of thoughts to him.

 

"Trish?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Could you pass me a sandwich?"

 

"We're never going to make it to the top this way," she warns, holding out two sandwiches because he will never ask for a second one even when it means going hungry. "I want to camp out there. See the sunset."

 

"We will."

 

"Not if you keep having me going around in circles!"

 

He takes the sandwiches out of her hands. Holds out the map a second later after fishing it back out of his shirt pocket. "Here. You try to figure out a non-circle way of getting there." He sounds almost tired, though she knows he loves not having to be the one to make decisions. "I am just going to sit here and bask in the sunshine like the overgrown lizard your sister claims I am."

 

Trish mentally vows to have _words_ with Jess when she gets home, even though Ward is smiling from ear to ear as he stretches out and breathes a contented sigh into the world. She unfolds the map she took from him and frowns down at it. "Which side is up?" she asks, tilting her head left and then right in a bid to make sense of the scribbles. Peers at it more closely until at least one part of it starts to make sense. "Oh, wait, we passed that rock formation ages ago.."

 

She keeps talking inbetween the bites she takes from her sandwich. She's always been the type to think out loud when figuring something out, so she talks until she's certain she will be able to find her way around this part of the island blindfolded or at night if she has to. Trish talks until Ward is nodding along with her in what appears to be relief at not having to figure out the hotel manager's scribbles on the paper any longer.

 

They will eventually make it to the top. Somehow, she doesn't think that sentiment stands for this one island trek alone. It seems to stand for everything they are in life, or at least everything the world has always pushed them to be. It's who they've grown into becoming.

 

Trish thinks she wouldn't have it any other way.

 

*****

 

She has been staring up at the ceiling for at least two hours now. Trish would laugh at her own predictability if her stomach wasn't tying itself in rapid knots and turns. She's always been like this on the last day of a vacation before going back home. Sometimes it was just about the prospect of facing the combination of her acting gigs and her mother again. Other times, it was about something far harder and more fleeting to grasp. If she thinks about it long enough this time, she knows exactly what it's about.

 

One thing she's never been able to do is keep her thoughts to herself when the anxiety about going back home becomes too much for her alone to bear. She lets out a deep sigh. Turns away from the ceiling and shifts onto her side. Can't help but smile when she sees Ward's arms curled around his pillow and his head all but covered by a lone bedsheet. He's a belly-sleeper on the nights when she's not lodged in his arms, like now, and she almost wonders how he can still acquire oxygen with the way he's entangled in the bed. He's almost dead to the world, if the sound of his breathing is anything to go by, but she scoots over and presses a kiss to the top of his head anyway. Smiles as he mumbles out a sound and lifts his head up slightly for a moment.

 

“Ward?”

 

The man lying next to her makes a noncommittal noise in reply. Burrows himself further into the bed when she drapes herself over him and gives him another kiss with the hope of waking him more. He simply mumbles in response and sighs out a noise that's halfway to annoyed.

 

“Ward, wake up.” Her voice turns sharper. “We're going back home tomorrow.”

 

“So what?” he mumbles, pulling the pillow closer to him.

 

She groans. Flops back onto her back and blinks up against the ceiling. “So, what are we going to do when we get back?” She's not sure if this is the question that's really been bugging her, but figures it's as good an opening as any. "We should've taken three weeks off, like you said.."

 

"We can't leave those _idiots_ to run the city alone for longer than two weeks," he mumbles, repeating her own argument back to her verbatim. She groans again in response. He lets out a soft curse before his arm unfurls from the pillow and wraps around her waist. "Okay, okay, I'm awake. Shoot."

 

"Sorry," she whispers.

 

"Don't." His voice is sharp like this in the early morning hours, sometimes, and she curls in on herself slightly upon hearing it now. His hold on her tightens reassuringly in response. "Just.. tell me."

 

"I want to help people." She feels the desire for it pulse inside her like a strong heartbeat. Her breath comes out in short bursts as magenta streaks down her airways and blossoms in her chest. "I want to _mean_ something. I need to.. I have all this.." She gestures at the world around them before gesturing at herself. Takes a deep breath and rolls over until she's facing him. "I have all this coming to life inside me and around me. All this good stuff. I want to.. I want.."

 

"To share it?" His voice is quiet. The soft question burrows itself into her ears as his hand comes to rest on the small of her back. "I think you want to matter. To feel like you made a difference."

 

Her reply is instantaneous. She blushes when she realises how much it comes from the heart. "Oh yeah. More than anything. Is that.. is that weird?"

 

Even in the moonlight, she can make out the small smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth in response to her question. They're face to face now, almost nose to nose in closeness, and his breath is warm on her skin. She bumps her forehead against his gently. Reaches for him with languid motions until her hand rests on his neck and her fingertips graze the ends of his hair.

 

"Not weird. It's just you." He whispers it against her lips in reverence. "You've just got a saving people thing. It's bigger than you. I get that."

 

"Aren't you worried?"

 

His head tilts back so he can take a better look at her. "Worried, yes. Under the impression that I can somehow stop you? Hell no." He smirks at her before pressing a kiss against her brow. "We'll figure it out when we get home."

 

"This.. heroism-thing? It's going to be hard," she murmurs. "Hard on both of us, I expect."

 

"I know. Stop worrying." He sighs as she frowns at him. "All right. That's it.. come here," he insists, rolling over onto his back and pulling her closer to him. She slides over until her legs tangle with his and her head comes to rest against his chest. Is stupidly grateful that he can't see her face now that tears well up in her eyes at what he confesses to her and the night sky in equal measure. "I fell in love with all of this, you know. With all of you. Not just with the easy parts."

 

Trish doesn't think she's got any easy parts. She knows Ward doesn't consider himself to possess any of those, either, if his occasional disparaging remarks about his own difficulty are anything to go by. She knows what it costs him to profess his love so freely. Knows all the things that make him doubt and hold back in the light of day.

 

Sometimes, she wants these nights to last more than just this one lifetime.

 

"I hope I'll find you," she mumbles sleepily, hearing his steady heartbeat beneath her head, and makes it half a prayer in the quietest parts of herself. She's not prepared for anything less than this. "I hope I will.."

 

"What's that?"

 

"I hope I'll find you," she repeats, louder this time, curling possessively around him in a well-practiced manner. "No matter which time, which life, which universe we're in.. I hope I'll never be without you."

 

She feels his chuckle reverberate through his chest as his hold on her tightens. He laughs out a breath into her hair. "You're really making the most of this romantic getaway, huh."

 

"Oh shut up!" She punches his bare chest lightly, cheeks burning, as he keeps laughing. Rakes a hand through her hair as she sits up and looks at him. Her brow furrows. "I will retract my previous statement right now. I hope you will be murdered in your sleep."

 

"Should I hide the kitchen knives?"

 

She smirks down at him. "Hide your pillow."

 

"Not the pillow," he groans, laughter dying on his lips abruptly. Blinks up at her when she folds her arms in front of her chest and does her best to stare him down. "I take it back. Feel free to get as romantic as you want."

 

"You sure you can take that?"

 

“Sweetheart, I can take you any damn day.” 

 

She  _almost_ believes him.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are.. the last chapter, whoa. I sincerely hope you have all enjoyed reading along — thank you SO MUCH for all the comments and kudos given on the way! I cannot even tell you how much I appreciate and treasure every single thing you have sent me. 
> 
> Another _biiiig_ thank you goes out to the Ward Meachum and Kastle fandoms on Tumblr for letting me talk about my writing and for being a building ground of great ideas all the way. This fic would not be what it is today if these lovely and talented people had not had my back in support and joy throughout. 
> 
> Much love to all of you who've come this far in reading this magnum opus of mine, and please tune in one more time now for this finale...

Trish's phone rings the second she sets foot back in the city.

 

“We're not even out of the airport yet,” complains Ward, already sounding fed up with the way this city always lays claim on one of them. “Who is it?”

 

“Don't know.” She frowns as the display shows her that her caller wishes to remain anonymous. “Think I have a clue, though.” There is only one person who'd go through the trouble of hiding everything about his contact information. She doesn't waste time in picking up the phone, despite Ward already opening his mouth to protest. “Hello?”

 

“Congratulations, Hellcat.” The voice on the other side of the line is calm and comforting in her ear. She smiles as she recognises it. “Or is it still Miss Walker?”

 

“Whichever you prefer, my friend,” she greets Micro warmly. “To what do I owe your congratulations?”

 

“Saving the world is worth a pat on the back, or so I have been raised to believe. If the internet's many gossip sites are to be believed, your liaison with Mr Meachum is something to congratulate you with as well.”

 

“Not officially,” she laughs, “but thank you regardless.”

 

Micro's voice lodges itself in her ears as she follows Ward to the car that's waiting for them. “I would compliment you on your tan, but my wife informed me years ago that this kind of thing can very quickly hinge on sounding like a creepy stalker. Not what I'm shooting for with you, ma'am.” She smiles as she spots one of the parking lot's security cameras. If Karen is to be believed, the man really has eyes and ears everywhere he wants them to be. “The Hand's influence in New York has evaporated due to your actions. They have not just withdrawn from the city, but seem to have vanished from this country altogether. Massive blow.”

 

“Good!” She smiles and gives Ward a quick thumbs-up. “What of IGH?”

 

“Next on the agenda. I have arranged a sit-down for you after your birthday. You may bring Mr Meachum, should you be so inclined, but I believe that _not_ bringing him would greatly expedite the process of speaking with a certain vigilante and his reporter lifeline.” Frank and Karen, then. She cannot really imagine Ward and Frank stuck in a room together for any prolonged conversation, so finds herself agreeing with Micro that the latter may be the better option. “There is no official word on what IGH wishes with you just yet, but we will keep both that and the Superhuman Registration Act away from your doorstep as long as we can. Let's just say your invitation to the latter will keep getting lost in your mail.”

 

“I appreciate that, thank you.” The SRA is more of a headache than it's worth, even though half the Avengers Initiative has apparently signed off on it without great issue. “I really want to thank you for the information you gave me last time. It helped a lot.”

 

“That is the main reason why I called, _Hellcat_.” He stresses the moniker this time. Chuckles lightly in her ear and her belly is swept up in an ocean of green. He sounds like the steady earth beneath her. “I wish to make this arrangement permanent. I will send you an email with details attached, should you accept it. As efficient as the Dogwalker can be, I would still like to be of assistance to you in your future endeavours.”

 

She doesn't need to think twice about it. “Arrangement accepted.”

 

The phone line disconnects.

 

Trish shakes her head. It's good to be home.

 

*****

 

“There she is!”

 

One of these days, she's going to remember that making stealthy appearances never works when one is meeting a lawyer and a journalist for drinks. Marci is the first to have spotted her this time, crowing about Trish's arrival in the ear of a rather harrassed-looking Karen and reaching for Trish the second she's in the vicinity of their table. Karen waves a distracted 'hello' with the tiny umbrella from her drink, absorbed by something on her phone as she is. Marci's arms wrap around Trish tightly as the lawyer warbles something about having missed her.

 

“Missed you too!” Trish jokingly lifts Marci off the floor for a second as she hugs the blonde woman back. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

 

“You know me, wicked people always do good,” laughs Marci in reply. “No but seriously, can't complain. Fog and I went to check out that new restaurant –- you have got to see it, it's got a b _eeee_ autiful aquarium.”

 

“I've heard more about the aquarium than about the actual restaurant. How was the food?” snarks Karen, without tearing her eyes off the screen. “Hi, Trish.”

 

“Hi Kar. Dogwalker send you something interesting?”

 

“Nothing you have to worry about.” Karen waves it off with a hand gesture, but her brow furrows in a way that doesn't promise many good things. The blonde reporter finally looks up from the screen and eyes Trish rather warily. “I swear, I don't know how you always know it's his messages and not someone else's. How were the Seychelles?”

 

“Karen, look at her tan and her smile, the Seychelles were great!” That's Marci, always filling in the blanks expertly. And Marci wouldn't be Marci if she didn't pause to make sure she got it right. “They were, weren't they?”

 

Trish can't stop the smile from breaking out on her face. “They were,” she affirms. “Best two weeks I've ever had. Highly recommend it. Now, what's this about the food in that restaurant?”

 

Marci heaves a sigh. “You went on a really nice and long impromptu vacation with what used to be one of New York's most eligible bachelors and now you're asking me about the food in some random restaurant? Your priorities are all wrong, girlfriend.” The lawyer raises one eyebrow imperatively. “Spill. I don't need to know how often you've had good sex, but I do need to know everything else.”

 

“You always share how often you and Foggy..” Karen doesn't finish her sentence, but gestures empathically at Marci while her nose wrinkles. “How come you want Trish to shut up about the same thing?”

 

“Can we please _not_ have this conversation in public, thank you?!” says Trish loudly, waving her hands at both her friends when Marci opens her mouth to reply. “I _really_ don't need that kind of private information to come up whenever someone googles me. Ward would throw a fit and likely kill me if the first hit on Google for his name contained details on his sex life rather than on his professional exploits. If there's one thing Jess taught me, it's that the internet never forgets.”

 

Karen's face turns grimmer at that. “It doesn't. I've been fighting Ellison and everybody all week. Someone thought it'd be an excellent idea to re-upload the video of Frank and his daughter reuniting after his deployment onto every major site they could think of early this morning.” The reporter heaves a sigh and rubs her eyes tiredly. Trish actually sits down on one of the stools at that news. “I've been alternating between yelling at people and trying to get a hold of Frank for the better part of the day. People have no respect for privacy.”

 

“It humanises him, though,” says Trish, not comprehending the exact issue here. She tries to recall the conversation she had with Karen a long time ago about this same subject. “From what you said, it's a beautiful reunion between parent and child. Surely it's not so bad to show this to the general public, especially not now that Frank keeps swinging into the news?”

 

“Violently. With a bat.” Marci emphasises the point by making a little whacking motion with her drink's umbrella. “I saw the video. I'm telling you, it almost made me want to have kids right now.” Her smile turns wry. “Pop 'em out real quick before Hogarth decides my uterus belongs to the company.”

 

“It's private.” Karen shakes her head. “I couldn't escape watching it, but it felt like I was intruding on something so... personal. Even though it happened in public.” The blonde shakes her head and knocks back the remainder of her drink. “I just don't want Frank to see it everywhere when he comes back here.”

 

“He's gone?”

 

“For now,” mutters Karen darkly. She doesn't elaborate. Doesn't really have to. Trish expects to see the results of the Punisher's latest warzone in the newspapers any day now. “He'll be back after your birthday, as I was told you know all about already.”

 

“Glad you're keeping in touch with Micro,” smiles Trish. “Is it weird that I'm actually excited to be working with him? It's going to be an interesting time from here on out and I can't wait to see where it goes.”

 

Marci downs the remainder of her drink at that. “As long as it doesn't feature another hurricane or worse, I'm all for it. We are too kickass to be bogged down by our boring work exploits.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” laughs Karen, “I have got two major stories coming up and Ellison is already talking about putting me into protective custody over one of them.”

 

“Ward and I are going back to work tomorrow.” Trish smiles as she says it. “Thank you both for covering Trish Talk in my absence.”

 

Marci had apparently been a riot on-air, weaving legal terminology in with personal anecdotes that had been a massive hit with the oneliner-quoting populace of the internet. Trish almost envies the woman's lack of filter, convinced that Marci is happiest when she's allowed to talk about whatever comes to her mind, though she does not envy her team's efforts to downplay some of Marci's more confrontational comments.

 

“It's been a pleasure,” says Karen, as Marci simply raises her next drink to Trish in salutation. Karen had been a voice of reason against Marci's more callous one, weaving journalistic exploits in with human interest stories that both Karen and Trish will never tire of. “Never make me do that again, though.”

 

“Radio not for you?”

 

Karen shudders comically. “I think it's your baby, not mine. This is your gift.”

 

“Along with the really kickass telepathy and mind-reading,” crows Marci. “New York's finest!”

 

Trish ducks her head at that. She's always wanted to save the world. Now that she has, she finds herself almost shy at any reminders of it. She waves Marci's words off with her own lemonade.

 

“Off the alcohol?” frowns Karen.

 

“Not what you think. Ward and I want to shoot for sober.” Trish smiles proudly at that. “We're more functional like that.”

 

“You're _totally_ trying for a baby.”

 

“Marci.”

 

“You are!”

 

“No, we're not. Jesus.” Trish rolls her eyes. “Can a girl please get married first?”

 

“Ooohh, old-fashioned!”

 

“Karen..”

 

“Ow!”

 

“Thank you,” remarks Trish as Marci's left rubbing her arm in mock-offense at Karen's half-hearted slap. “No marriage. No babies. Just us, staying sober for the foreseeable future. The world's not ending, so this seems like the perfect time to actually put in the effort half a dozen AA meetings taught us.”

 

“I had no idea,” says Karen, eyeing her umbrella-adorned drink and Marci's standard glass of Merlot rather uncomfortably. “Do you want us to..?”

 

“Hell no, you keep right on drinking for as long as it feels good to you. This is just something from Ward and me, no need to adjust your life to that. We're grown-up enough to function in a world of alcohol while attempting to stay sober.” She blinks as she comes to a realisation. “Wait. If your first assumption is 'baby!'.. then..”

 

“That's what the rest of New York will think, too.” Marci nods sagely. “Sorry, doll.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“Bet that's not how you envisioned your grand return to this city, huh?”

 

“Actually,” Trish muses, “I think this is _exactly_ what I envisioned.”

 

*****

 

She almost eats her words when it takes her more than five minutes simply to get close to the lobby at Rand Enterprises. The gossip beat in this city has always flowed faster than the river, and today is no exception when she has to wade through a crowd of photographers and random passersby the second she steps out of her car. This is not the 'welcome home' she had expected out of this city, not by a long shot, and she is surprised when some people actually begin to part way for her. Even more surprised when the whispers that follow her seem to fall firmly under favourable.

 

“I heard she's a _hero_ –”

 

“–deserves respect, you have to–”

 

“–great couple!”

 

“She's so–”

 

“Inspiring!”

 

Colours streak past her faster than she can walk. The entirety of New York is a rainbow coming to life around her when she stands still long enough to focus in on what she's sensing. The world seems lighter, brighter, without the presence of the Black Sky. She wants to take a moment to soak it up. To bask in it the way Karen basks in the sunlight, the way Marci basks in Foggy's attention, the way Jess basks in arguing with Daredevil.

 

Trish thanks her lucky stars she thought to wear sunglasses today when one obnoxious photographer does not turn his flash off before taking a shot. “Really?” she asks, exasperated, when the man doesn't even apologise. Shakes her head before looking around. Tries not to sound too harrassed when the other photographers seem to take her comment as an invitation to press in closer. Colours briefly swirl around her before she squashes them back down expertly. She's getting better at it with every breath she takes. “Could you all just... back off a little? Please!”

 

It's a testament to Ward's status in his company when a small part of the security detail actually walks out to meet her the second they catch sight of her. She breathes a sigh of relief when it seems to be enough to let the photographers back away from her more. “Welcome home, ma'am,” says one as she falls into step with them. “Shall I let Mr Meachum know about your arrival?”

 

“I had actually hoped to surprise him,” she says conspiratorially as they step into the lobby. Removes her sunglasses after a moment's pause, though she prays that her eyes don't noticeably pick up on the bright green that sweeps through the receptionist at the desk. “Then again, the news seems to travel fast in these types of companies. Gossip is corporate's bread and butter.”

 

She doesn't comment on how polite Rand's security detail is to her, nor does she blink in surprise when they hand her an access card that already has her name and photograph printed on it. Ward doesn't do anything by halves. Her status in his company is one of certainty now, built up from the many months spent in his company. The only thing that still surprises her is the many respectful nods she receives on their way to the elevator. Briefly, she wonders if this is how it feels to be a CEO's wife. Squashes _that_ thought back down as quickly as it came.

 

She knows that Ward's and Danny's parents were married to this company. The marble and neutral colours reflect their presence still, corporate comforts slipping into the family names if given half the chance, clean straight lines leading toward the top of the city in an attempt to domineer a space they now know can be taken away from them at any moment's notice. Harold's dark red streaks that still mark his son's back in times of insecurity are not present here at all, though she spots the brightest vermillion for a second at the elevator's doors. Shakes it off moments later, knowing that Harold Meachum is dead and that his son is cancelling the man's legacy with every step Rand takes forward into honest and empathic business deals.

 

Ward isn't married to the company. There was a time he claimed to be, born of a too-early start at its head and the influence of his father's steady stream of toxicity. Now, Ward is singlehandedly changing everything about his relationship to Rand. She sees the effects of his presence the second she steps out of the elevator and looks around the top floor. He has stripped it of its neutral colours almost entirely. Blues and yellows surround her the way he often wraps around her, too, and there's an entire corridor to her right that seems to breathe shades of green into the air that surrounds the many plants. A rich purple is underfoot as she steps into the space fully.

 

Trish feels welcome in this corporate area, even when it is a far cry from the things she occupies herself with on a regular basis. She idly wonders if she would have had a 9-to-5 desk job if her mother had not been so hellbent on making her famous. Thinks it's far more likely she would've gotten stuck in the fashion industry, even when Ward's still convinced that she's a born psychologist.

 

“Hi, hi!” She greets the assistants on the floor cheerily, giving them a small wave as she steps closer to Ward's office. “Is Ward in office or do I have to wait?”

 

Danny's assistant Megan, bless her heart, simply nods at her in greeting. The woman looks a great deal more relaxed now that she is not in close contact with the Meachums on the regular. (Joy leaving the company had culminated in something disastrous, or so Ward had finally confessed, as Megan had found herself literally going to bat against Joy in Danny's defense. Ward had given Megan three paid weeks off and every kind of insurance coverage the woman could ever need, but it would never be enough to convince the woman to work for him personally again. Danny had been all too happy to take her on as an assistant.)

 

“Ward's in office, ma'am,” remarks Ward's new assistant respectfully. Somehow, Ward has successfully managed to get everyone in his company to stop calling him Mr Meachum. Trish has to hide a smile at the informality of it. This new girl is thankfully not a huge Patsy Walker fan the way the last one was. Ward burns through assistants faster than the speed of light these days, though, so Trish is not sure how long this new one is going to last. “He's not in a meeting, so please walk right in. It would help with the yelling he's been doing on and off all morning.”

 

“Why's he been yelling?” she asks the assistant interestedly.

 

The girl's red curls bounce back and forth as she shakes her head. “No idea. I think I tuned him out about an hour ago when he started talking about quarterly numbers,” she confesses. Trish laughs in response to that. Thinks maybe this girl might be a keeper when she can tune Ward's rambling out at will. “I think it had something to do with our legal department and the Nexus deal, but that's as far as I got before he became unintelligible.”

 

“One of those days then,” grins Trish, winking at the girl conspiratorially. The girl shoots her an easy smile in reply. “Thanks, Harper.”

 

She doesn't knock on Ward's door before opening it and walking in. “Nexus deal, huh?” she asks right before she closes the door behind her. Her eyes sweep over the open skies and skyscrapers that surround his office before they fix on the organised clutter that's scattered throughout the room. “What did they want this time?”

 

Ward leans back in his chair. Flings his pen down on top of his desk and grunts out something unintelligible. He already looks exhausted from the day. “There's nothing wrong with Nexus, but _Legal_ is needlessly complicating things for _Contracting_. _Acquisitions_ is yelling at everyone in the building and _somehow_ I got stuck between the three of them in this morning's meeting.” He pinches the bridge of his nose briefly. “I'll be glad when today's done, let me tell you that.”

 

“I'm going to talk about the charter schools and education on Trish Talk later today, so I feel your pain.” Nothing like children's welfare to bring in a bunch of angry callers. She can already sense the diffusing she's going to have to do to make sure she stays on-topic even now. “At least our lives are back to normal, though. No more weird stuff.”

 

He cracks a smile at that. “I wouldn't say back to normal, exactly, when you're in my office on a Monday..”

 

She shrugs. “If you're not going to take lunch outside, I'm going to make lunch come to you,” she says, holding the food aloft. Walks up to him and sets the bag down next to his computer. “I am in physical _pain_ every time you tell me you're taking one of Rand's boring lunches.”

 

He rolls his eyes at that. “The lunch is perfectly functional.”

 

“Functional isn't fun at all,” she complains. Presses a soft kiss to his mouth before perching on the desk in front of him. “I come bearing news.”

 

“Good news?”

 

“It's a wedding, so yes!”

 

The man seated in front of her blanches visibly at that. Briefly pinches the bridge of his nose again before letting out a sigh. “Please tell me Danny didn't propose to Colleen,” he says, then, and she almost laughs at how resigned he sounds. “I don't think I would survive the stress of that. Hell, I think Manhattan would have cause to call it The Incident, part two. Or three, if they count my death experience and Midland Circle blowing itself to pieces.”

 

“I'm pretty sure you'd be the first to know about _that_ wedding,” she hums, hiding a smile at his asinine observation, “and you might even know about it before Colleen does.” Reaches out to smooth a stray strand of his hair back. “You know Danny looks up to you. He wouldn't make a move that big without talking to you first now.”

 

“God, I hope so. Not that I'm looking forward to that particular conversation. There's only so much I really want to know about his relationship with Colleen, and Danny often fails to recognise when I've hit my tax on it.”

 

“You can't blame him for being excited about her. I'm pretty sure you talk about me the way he talks about Colleen.” Trish grins at him unapologetically. “I think Luke would give him a talking-to if he proposed to Colleen right now, though. You know they've been cleaning up the remnants of Midland Circle and working to counter Mariah Dillard's latest efforts. Weddings don't exactly fit into that picture so well.”

 

“So if it's not anyone on the 'Heroes For Hire'-side, as I don't think Misty's seeing anyone, and I know for a fact that Murdock and Jessica abhor weddings even more than I do,” Ward says slowly, looking like he just sucked on a particularly sour lemon, “then who decided to get married? It's not us, is it?”

 

“I think you'd know if that was the case, because I'm not going to be the one to ask _that_ question,” she shoots back with a smile. Leans back and tilts her head to look at him. “Marci and Foggy are tying the knot.”

 

“She finally cornered him?”

 

“Actually,” Trish says, laughing at the thought, “I think it was Foggy who popped the question? Marci was a garbled mess on the phone, obviously, but from what I could tell through the tears and the high-pitched screaming and the random noises of joy... I think he blurted it out over breakfast and then got so nervous about it that he wound up burning his hand on the stove.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Marci had to drag his ass out to Claire's to get his hand fixed up before Foggy could even get the ring out of his pocket. Did you know he'd been carrying that thing for four years now?”

 

“Not surprised.” Ward extends his hand toward the lunch she brought. “From what you've told me, they've always done this weird dance that ends with him worshipping the ground he walks on. _Of course_ he had the ring. I just thought she'd be the one to ask, given how.. forward she is.” He almost shudders at that. Unpacks some of the food from the bag. Frowns. “Did you plan on eating with me or are you preparing for some kind of apocalypse or why did you bring me twenty different boxes?”

 

“I need to get to work myself soon, so this will be a quick visit.” She almost regrets that when the smell of fresh waffles invades her nostrils. “Wasn't sure what you were in the mood for.”

 

He rises to his feet and puts his hands on her knees. Presses his forehead against hers gently. “I'm in the mood for you,” he says, and she swears she can hear his breath catch in his throat when she leans in and grabs a hold of his hands. “You look wonderful today.”

 

“Do I now?” She smirks knowingly, aware that the white sundress she donned today reminds of a particularly warm night in the Seychelles. “Wait until you see the dress Marci mentioned she wants me to be in when she gets married. You're going to love it.”

 

“She got engaged _how_ many hours ago?”

 

“It's Marci. She's been planning this wedding ever since Foggy began to hog her personal space.” She pauses. Contemplates. “Probably ever since she met him, truth be told, though I think neither one of them is aware of that fact.”

 

“You women and your weddings.. should I be worried?”

 

“I don't want a big wedding. Or a white dress. Or anything like that.” Trish shakes her head and kisses Ward's cheek. Smiles at the thought of getting married, even when the event itself is probably going to defy conventions the way she feels their entire relationship does at times. “And I don't want it now. Someday, yes..”

 

“Someday,” he echoes.

 

The kiss he presses to her mouth is gentle at first. It's laden with promise of someday, one day, everything the future can give her. His lips are soft on hers. Her mouth opens slightly of its own volition, capturing his lower lip briefly before increasing the pressure. Her hands are messing up his perfectly coiffed hair – something she delights in – and it doesn't take long before he's groaning reverence into her mouth when her tongue slips between his lips and her leg hooks around him expertly.

 

His hand slips under her sundress to caress her thigh. She shivers in delight as his fingers dance across her skin expertly, finding all the spaces of her body that make her feel like she can fly. She leans back slightly on the desk, wrinkling some of the papers and pulling him in even closer.

 

The door to his office creaks open behind her.

 

“Sir, I need you to sign– oh.” The voice behind Trish sounds flustered beyond belief. She vaguely identifies it as one of the girls from _Contracting_. “I'm _so_ sorry. I didn't know you were busy... I'll just.. go.”

 

The door clicks shut again, right as Trish bursts into laughter.

 

Ward snorts a soft laugh of his own into her hair. “Busy, she says,” he mutters incredulously. “I am going to be subject to office gossip _hell_ from here on out.” She giggles in delight when he buries his head in the crook of her neck and kisses her anew. He lets out a sigh soon after. A wry smile flashes across his face as he jokes: “Look at what you've made of me. They'll never fear me again.”

 

“I don't know, I think the speed with which she left the room might still be fear-based,” she says in reply, smiling as she hooks her thumbs in the loops of his waistband and pulls at him. Basks in the warmth when his arms wrap around her. “We need to save some of this for tonight. All things are better with anticipation..”

 

“Can you wait that long?”

 

“Can you?”

 

He groans out a half-curse that makes her smile. “Impossible woman,” he sighs. Tilts his head back to look at her. “Challenge accepted.”

 

Her foot lazily trails up his leg. “Are you sure?”

 

The breath he huffs out in response delights her. His hold on her tightens just a fraction before he releases her entirely. “I'm sure,” he says, and the air coils and folds around her in a swirl of purple haze even as he steps away from her. “But tonight..”

 

She gets up off the desk. Smooths down her dress as though nothing's the matter. Shoots him one of her fakest, most winning smiles on purpose and is rewarded with his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Tonight, I'm all yours.” She's a little unsteady on her feet. A little breathless. No matter. Stumbling out of his office in this state is going to be worth it for the office gossip alone.

 

Stumbling out of his office after the promise of _tonight_ is worth even more.

 

*****

 

“I got you something.”

 

“You got me a gift?” Her laugh turns delighted when he procures a small wrapped thing from behind his back. “You _actually_ remembered my birthday?”

 

“Don't look so surprised,” he mutters as he seats himself on the bed and leans slightly against her raised legs. Holds the gift out for her to take. “Happy birthday, Trish.”

 

She almost folds her hands around the small box straight away. Hesitates briefly, trying to figure out the best way to hold it without ruining it. It's expertly wrapped in the same meticulous style she knows is entirely Ward's doing. No store could make their gift wrap look midway between regular giftbox and elaborate origami.

 

“It's not jewellery,” he hastens to add, now that she's gingerly grabbed hold of the box at its corners. Ward's always had a habit of spoiling gifts, or so Danny confided in her when Ward had blurted out what they'd gotten Danny for his birthday a few weeks before the world almost ended. He can't ever keep his excitement secret. It's one of the things she finds most endearing about the man she loves. “I know you hate getting any kind of jewellery as a gift.”

 

“Who told you that?” She furrows her brow. Attempts to peel off the sticky tape with one of her fingernails. Huffs out an annoyed breath when it only partially peels off the wrapping paper. “God, Ward, I'm _never_ letting you wrap our Christmas presents.”

 

“They're ours now, are they?” His tone is one of gentle amusement that streaks white and blue over her fingertips. She rolls her eyes at him in a well-practiced move that Jessica always classifies as her 'no duh'-face. Speaking of Jessica... “Your sister suggested to me that presenting you with jewellery would make you bail out on me at the earliest opportunity. Said she wanted me to stick around, so she informed me about most of the weird relationship habits you picked up during the years.”

 

She raises her eyebrow at that. Wordlessly thanks Jessica while simultaneously flipping her sister the bird. Then, the full scope of his words sinks in. “Jess actually _wants_ you to stick around?”

 

“Apparently, I'm growing on her.” A pause. “I believe she said I am like a fungus that way.”

 

 _That_ sounds more like Jessica. “A good-looking fungus,” she agrees. A wicked smile curves at her lips when he groans out loud at her words. She resumes her careful picking at the box. Hisses out a victory when a part of the wrapping paper tears loose. “What else did she say?”

 

“Lots of stuff I already knew.”

 

“That so?”

 

He actually has the audacity to smile at her. “You will get out of bed just to eat cold leftovers at four in the morning. You have a superhero costume stashed in the back of your closet. You think that air vents are New York's biggest problem because your heels always get stuck in those.” He's building up steam now, talking about her in a way that sets his eyes alight. She can't bear to look at him. Focuses on the wrapping paper that's increasingly coming loose from the box instead. “I can wake you up for homemade Italian gelato, but you _hate_ the cones it comes in and prefer cups instead. You don't like to be gifted with anything you can buy yourself, although you'll never say no to getting flowers. Your sides aren't ticklish, but your back will arch the second my hand skims your thighs.” She can't help but smile at that last bit. Trish is assured that he's the only one who ever figured _that_ out about her. “You've got a 'saving people thing' that's bigger than the state of New York. You're exactly the kind of woman my dad used to warn me about. And.. well..” He sounds a little sheepish, now. Takes a deep breath before warbling out what he wants to say. “I can't imagine being in a world where you don't exist.”

 

The wrapping paper tumbles into her lap and lays there, forgotten, as she raises her eyes and looks at him. He sits perfectly still on the edge of her bed. Halfway dressed for work with his shirt unbuttoned and his tie nowhere to be seen. (Trish thinks it may have gotten lost in their rush to get to bed last night, but she isn't about to let him know that she might have dropped it behind the couch. After all, she likes him better like this.) She reaches over to smooth his still wet hair out of his eyes. Catalogues his minuscule flinch before her fingers touch his brow. Has half a mind to revive Harold Meachum and give him a piece of her mind, which of course cements all the reasons why Trish is the kind of girl to warn a son about.

 

She scoots closer to where he's sitting. Presses a soft kiss to his jaw that almost succeeds in making him smile. “You won't have to find out,” she says. “I'll always be here.” She knows this will make her a liar one day, far away in the future, but somehow she knows it to be the truth as well. Where there is love, there is life eternal. Still, she asks. Still, she needs. “Stay with me?”

 

“Always. Now open the damn box.”

 

She laughs when he shatters the quiet comfort between them with his impatience. Withdraws her fingers from his hair and presses another kiss to his cheek before clasping the small box in her hands. It does look like something to put jewellery in, now that she has unwrapped it, and for a brief moment she thinks he may have done exactly that despite having been warned not to.

 

Trish clicks the box open.

 

An unassuming key greets her. It glints silver in the light, offset by the dark blue velvet cushion it rests on. It's not small enough to belong to a trinket, though its shape reminds her of the key she used for her supersecret diary when she was little. ( _Supersecret_ had not been enough to keep her mother out. Trish thinks she might resent that more than she resents anything else about Dorothy Walker.) She frowns at the key. Picks it up and holds it between her fingers, tilting it back and forth to get a better look. She knows it's not a car key, not a key to a bike, not a key to any other box she can think of. She cycles through half a dozen key options before drawing a total blank.

 

Or, well, not a _total_ blank. “Ward,” she says, clipping out his name, “this had better not be what I think it is.”

 

“What do you think it is?”

 

It's his tone that convinces her that, yes, this is _exactly_ what she thinks it is. Ward sounds just as giddy as he does when he's located a movie on Netflix they both haven't seen yet, as excited as he does when he's out of the office and swinging by her workplace to tell her about something new he's got planned for Rand, as happy as he does when he is drowning in art supplies and sketching out interesting buildings they can see from wherever they're taking their lunch that day. He tries and fails to hide the smile that broke out on his face the second she picked the key up from its box. There is nervous, excited energy swirling around him as he looks at her.

 

“The only thing I can think of is that it's a key to a house or apartment, which of course it isn't.” She pauses. Watches his smile grow even bigger. The realisation sinks in. “Ward. You didn't.”

 

“It was Danny's idea,” he confesses, and she squeezes the key so hard she thinks its imprint may be permanently embedded in her skin. “He's moving into Colleen's dojo officially next week, seeing as he's there all hours of the day anyway. When he first got to New York, Jeri arranged for him to get a really spacious apartment. Company asset of sorts, according to her, but it's no problem to draw up paperwork that makes it yours.”

 

“Mine,” she echoes.

 

“No more rent. No more maintenance jobs that drive the rent price up further. Just your own space, furnished with an excellent security system. Furnished with the rest of your things, too, if you're willing to loan me the key to your place. You can stay here in the meantime. If you want it..”

 

“Stop saying 'if',” she says absentmindedly, twirling the key between her fingers. “This is big, Ward.”

 

“That's the third time you've said my name now since opening that,” he chuckles nervously. He refuses to meet her eyes now. Hunches in on himself ever so slightly. He's making himself small in her space again, practiced as he is at being unobtrusive and quiet. “What do you think?”

 

Her eyes soften. “I think we need to go check it out.” Her voice is barely audible, but her heart is beating a mile a minute and there is a smile lodging itself on her face so firmly that her cheeks already hurt from it. “I want this new space. The old no longer fits.”

 

“I want this for you.” He whispers it into the space between them. Turns his head to look at her again. The love that lingers in his gaze makes her cheeks burn before her forehead comes to rest against his. “It's all I could think to give you after you claimed you already had everything you need.”

 

“I do have everything I need.” Her hand interlocks with his. “I have you.”

 

*****

 

Ward never makes it to work that day. Never locates his tie, either, though she loves him more like this when the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbow and his hand never strays too far from hers. He'd squeezed her hand reassuringly when she'd asked if he didn't need to call Harper to inform her that he wouldn't be in today. Trish is now convinced that he never planned to go in at all, even though she can't actually get him to admit to that much.

 

The key to her apartment rests in her hand. It's warm and already feels more like home than it has any right to. She's done staying in the fortress she's built for herself. Tired of staying in Ward's open spaces, too, as he never really bothered to make much of a home out of it. She needs something new for this new phase in her life, even when her stomach is tumbling with butterflies and her palms are slightly sweaty from nerves.

 

She's never done well with the unexpected. New situations make her nervous. New people make her standoffish. New chapters in her life are a rollercoaster of joy and utter fear. Trish thinks she's clinging to the key so tightly because it's the only thing that still makes her feel in control, even when she's the one driving the car at present and her one-handed steering is making Ward very nervous.

 

“Grand Central, really?” she hums appreciatively as her eyes fix themselves in the direction he's telling her to go to. “That'll cut down on my commute.”

 

“Just one of the many advantages.”

 

They come to a halt not far away from where Ward claims the apartment is. She already loves the area, smack in the middle of the city between business and leisure, and could honestly do with a change of pace from Tribeca. This part of the city's all history and ornaments amid the modern, just the way she likes it. A smile graces her face when Ward wraps his arm around her shoulder.

 

“That's promising,” he remarks in her ear. “Glad you like the area.”

 

“Danny's insane for leaving it!” She knows that much now that her eyes actually land on the apartment building. “Please tell Jeri she has _excellent_ taste and a great eye for apartments.”

 

“Another thing to add to her list of Meachum-approved assets,” he concurs, looking up at the building himself with a vague smile playing around his lips. “You're near the top floor.”

 

“What?”

 

“Near the top floor,” he grins wickedly. “Wait until you see it!”

 

Trish follows him into the building, all the while shaking her head incredulously. She's got half a mind to call Danny and yell at him for being so unappreciative of New York's finest place to stay, but supposes that Danny's idea of a fine place is Colleen's dojo and occasionally Ward's living room floor. She clutches the key tightly in her hand.

 

Nobody's taking this space from her.

 

She already knows she's head over heels for it long before she sets foot in her actual apartment. A part of it has to do with Ward's infectious smile as the elevator races them toward the very top of the building. Another, smaller part of her whispers that this is the clean escape from her old life. This is a space built for New York's greatest. Trish knows she's not one of them, not yet, but standing here makes her feel like maybe this time she's got a chance to be.

 

Her heart catches in her throat when they walk out of the elevator and come face-to-face with a blue door. It's so light in colour that it's almost white, but Trish knows better. She's seen the same light blue space in Ward while he was sleeping. Sees it in Marci and Karen every day when they're talking and laughing up a storm. Sees it in Jessica, even, on the days in which the dark-haired woman feels like the closest thing she's got to family. Her hand lands on it reverently. She wishes to embrace this space that already feels so much like home.

 

There are tears in her eyes. Her heart's not sliding back down to her chest but hammers its erratic beat until she's shaking. She exhales a noisy breath.

 

“Hey, are you okay?” Ward's soft voice checks in with her as his hand lands on her arm. “Sweetheart?”

 

“I'm fine,” she laughs shakily. “Just.. today is good.”

 

“I'm glad,” he says quietly. Gestures at the lock on the door. “Here we are.”

 

“Here we are,” she echoes, and sticks the key where it belongs.

 

The door swings open to an unassuming hallway that's painted a soft golden yellow. She smiles at the colour. Kicks her heels off in the next second, landing barefoot on tiles she's pretty sure can be heated in winter. Her footsteps are light on the ground as she shrugs her coat off and lets it come to rest on the lone coatrack Danny left her with.

 

“The interior was not at all anyone's taste,” remarks Ward behind her. “Danny and I removed most of the items that Marci and Karen vetoed.”

 

“They knew about this?”

 

“Marci and Foggy helped draw up the legal documents for it.” He shrugs. “Karen is officially still the scariest friend you've got. She intimidated me into telling her what I was getting you for your birthday.”

 

Trish laughs at that. “Sounds like her. She was worried you'd gift me something silly like a potted plant or a hand-knitted scarf.” A vague smile plays around her lips when her hand comes to rest on the door that leads to the rest of the apartment. “I'm glad you got me something else.”

 

“This is going to be a tough act to follow.”

 

She finds herself agreeing with him as soon as she opens the door. The room beyond the hallway is bright. There are some pieces of furniture stacked to the wall next to her, but that's not what has drawn her attention. This is a proper living room, not an open space that includes a kitchen and a bunch of other things that have no real business being near a couch. She takes an instant liking to it.

 

Trish steps further into the room.

 

She locks eyes with the sky as the apartment space opens up before her properly. Stops dead in her tracks. There is only glass between her and the city. As far as her eyes can see, the glass sweeps around the living area and opens it up to the sky.

 

It's not any fear of heights that has glued her feet to the ground.

 

Blue floods every part of the room. For a moment, briefly, she thinks she senses Ward in the way the air sweeps around her and threatens to claim her in one fell swoop. Cobalt blue competes with cerulean at the edges of her vision. Powder blue whisks over the city until it mingles with the azure of brightest day. Rays of golden yellow touch her face and hands before settling in to explode across her chest. Cornflower yellow catches her hair and doesn't let go until rosegold streaks tempt it into a dance. There is pink darting through the skies around her in a whirlwind she may one day see fit to name.

 

“The sky looks like you.” She whispers it reverently into the new space she has been gifted with. Reaches for him blindly until her fingers tangle with his own and his lips meet her hair. “Ward, _look_.” She laughs her delight and her wonder into her words as the colours continue to dance around them. Squeezes his hand and rocks back on her feet until her head collides with his shoulder. “It's like you're hugging me.”

 

“It looks.. beautiful.” Strong hands land around her waist and turn her away from the glass. Her breath catches in her throat when blues and pinks argue with each other until soft lilacs mingle with the sunshine yellow of Ward's smile. His gaze is fixed on the sky behind her. “Do you like it? The apartment?”

 

She nods and rests her head on his chest. Hears the steady beat of his heart get closer as he wraps his arms around her tighter than ever before. “Love it,” she affirms. “There's just one thing I want to change about this..”

 

“Name it.”

 

“I want you to move in with me.”

 

She later swears up and down that she heard his heart skip a beat. His hand stills on her hair. He doesn't have to ask if she's sure. It's that fact that confirms it's a good idea, even when her own heart is racing a million miles an hour in anticipation. He knows her by now. Knows her intentions. Knows her heart.

 

His reply is instantaneous.

 

“Okay.”

 

 


End file.
